


Sitting like Piffey

by telemachus



Series: Chasing Cars [10]
Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: Aging, Birthday trauma, Going Home, Grief, Harmodius & Aristogeiton, Longing, Love, Lust, M/M, My Beautiful Launderette, Post-Canon, Stuart can't say, Stuart's A+ parenting, Teenagers, The more things change the more they stay the same, Time Passing, Unrequited, Vince never says anything, except you can't ever really go home, gratuitous mentions of, he tries, maurice - Freeform, or requited, parenting teenagers, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-26 21:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6256780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting like Piffey - Manchester phrase, meaning - to have my time wasted by someone else, to wait for someone who never turns up.</p><p>Ten years on, and Stuart still doesn't deal well with birthdays.<br/>Fifteen years on, and Stuart still can't say - anything.</p><p>(and the rest).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"..….bit of an emergency Alex, I've got to go, yeah, right, I'll phone you, yeah, OK."

There's a moment after Vince hangs up before he turns, before he looks at Stuart. A moment when he seems to be thinking.

It's a long while since Stuart had to wait for Vince's attention.

He doesn't like it any more now than he did ten years ago.

"Emergency?" and pique makes his voice crueler than he means, "you twat. There's no emergency, and Alex knows it. Just for once fucking put the phone down without lying about it."

And his head disappears into the towel again, so he doesn’t see the hurt.

But then, he never does.

 

 

 

Two days later, it’s Vince who comes out of the shower to find Stuart on the phone.

Vince who stands helplessly waiting as goodbyes are said.

Vince who would dearly like to hide in a towel, avoid this confrontation.

"We should be getting a move on, you'll not want to be too late - want time to - dance - whatever - before – well, before you - anyway - you want to shower? - did you want food sent up? - they overcharge - but I will if you are - I don't know - what d'you reckon? Might be sensible. Not drink on an empty stomach, all that?"

He could, Stuart knows from experience, go on for hours.

Best, therefore, just to interrupt.

"That was Alexander. Wanting to know if my meetings were really so important. If I couldn't reschedule. If I couldn't get you on a flight. If - fuck - if you'd said anything about arrangements. What you want. What - Jesus, Vince - what Hazel would have wanted."

Waits.

Sees the shutters come down.

Vince turns away, shrugs.

It's the moment when most people would perhaps reach out to their best friend, maybe touch, offer comfort.

Of course, Stuart has never been like most people.

"You twat. How do you think I felt? Hazel's dead, and you knew but you didn’t fucking tell me? Why? Why do I have to find out from Alex? And what the hell did he mean? Always knew I was a controlling bastard but this takes the biscuit?”

Mulishly stubborn now,

"Didn't see it was your problem. You - we - haven't been back in ten years. Why now?"

Stuart flounders.

"Because - shit - because - your mother's funeral? Why are we even having this conversation? You and Hazel were always so close - how are we not on a flight already, not back there? Jesus Christ Vince, what is wrong with you?"

Vince, from long habit, reaches for the comfort of a cigarette. Remembers. He gave up four years ago when it just got too difficult, too few places to smoke.

Probably just as well, given the heart defect. Not that he has it, not necessarily.

All the same.

All those years, worrying about cancer, turns out it wasn't the most likely killer. Wasn't himself he needed to worry about either.

And for a moment, the grief rises, the wave towers above him, and the loss, the pain would overwhelm him, if he let it.

Instead he reaches for anger.

"Go back? We - I - didn't go back for her wedding, why would I go now? Not been back once in ten years, not for Hazel, not for Alfie, not for anything or anyone. Why would we go now? If I wasn't there the one day of her life she really wanted me, what the fuck is the point in going when it's too late?"

"But what about family - neighbours - what will people think?" And even as he speaks, Stuart winces, hearing his own mother, hearing the words he grew up loathing, the attitude he thought he had freed himself from long ago.

Vince, as he still can on occasion, surprises him.

He laughs.

"I don't care. I don't know mum's neighbours, friends even. So many years, remember, Irene’s dead, people move on – I’ll have never even met half of them. And what family? There was only ever her and me. I don't suppose Dudley'll be there - nothing to say to him anyway - and her policeman - doubt he'd be too pleased if I turn up. No, best not. Let them say what they like. One thing Hazel taught me - it isn't doing what looks right that matters, it’s doing what is right."

And – bang – frees Stuart from all the panic squirreling in his head. Like he always does.

Vince doesn't say it, but - to turn up now, after all this time, and let everyone see how things are - wouldn't that be the worst betrayal of all? 'My mad dash to finally get my son his man!' 'My son and his boyfriend are off travelling the world' 'My son's rich boyfriend paid for this' - expose them all for the - not lies, not really lies, he won’t call them lies, but – simplifications - that they were? 

Wouldn't that be the worst hurt?

Wouldn't that really give them something to pity her for?

A son who isn’t the romantic end to a story, isn't wild and free and happy.

A son who's just - trailing after, just waiting, just wasting his life.

Just the way he has been since he was fourteen. 

 

 

 

 

Much later, lying alone in the hotel room, dreading sleep because tonight is the kind of night when the Stuart-dream happens, and it hurts, every time it hurts to wake to reality, Vince reminds himself of his resolve. 

He won't make a liar of his mum.

And if that means lying for the rest of his life, if it means not going home, not seeing his friends again - well.

Perhaps that isn't such a loss.

After all, the pity, pity that even now – even after running away, leaving everything behind, after all the big words and fancy speeches, after ten more years; nothing’s changed, still Stuart’s little acolyte, still waiting for the shag that will never happen – the pity for him on their faces would scald worse than anything, wouldn't it?

Worse than anything but the jealousy that burnt tonight and every such night, the ache and longing in him every time Stuart leaves with a shag, every time that predatory smile is turned on another, every time the heated touches he longs for are shared with some man - any man it seems - anyone, everyone, but never him.

Clenching fists, biting lip, he recites in his mind once again – it’s only sex. It doesn't mean anything. He loves you, in his way, he loves you more than anyone. You know him better than any of them ever will. You have him day after day at your side. Year after year. 

He knows you love him, he trusts you with everything he is.

He'd do anything - almost anything - anything but give up shagging - anything but say any of it outright - for you.

Isn't that enough?

It should be. It has to be.

After all, he offered a shag - a threesome – or just the two of you - romantic as anyone could dream of - all those years ago. And you turned him down.

Scared of what it would mean, what it would change - scared nothing would change, scared it wouldn't mean anything to him - you turned him down.

You chose this.

You said it was enough, said you’d wait. 

Promised, even if not in so many words. I’ll still be there, chasing after you. Your old age. Assuming I’d want you. Long time to wait.

Course, it didn’t seem that long then. Not compared to how long you’d waited already.

Twat.

But you said it, you meant it.

You chose this.

So stop with the self-pity, Vince.

You have what no-one else ever will.

Be content.

The recitation is calming, a litany to live by.

Good enough for Vince.

Almost.

 

 

 

 

As the cab-fare rises steadily, Stuart leans back, closes his eyes.

Why doesn't anyone stop him?

Someone should stop him.

Admits in his own mind that what he means is - Vince should stop him.

Thirty-nine now, forty approaching. 

Nephews who are adults, or near enough.

A son you don’t know, a son who will start secondary school soon. And isn’t that a time a boy needs a father?

Only you never signed up for that. Lisa makes a better father than you, any day of the week.

Besides, Vince did alright without.

Parents aging, so Marie says – not that you listen, not that you care, cunts, and Marie can just fuck off. But still.

And now - Hazel dead.

If that doesn't make them old, both of them, what will?

He isn't stupid - he knows he's on borrowed time, knows he doesn't look - shit, that he doesn't look in the mirror as he does in his mind. Knows he never had the type of looks that age well.

And he certainly didn't take care of himself.

Tonight - and not for the first time - he found himself leaving the bar with a shag he wouldn't even have glanced at once.

Tonight, not for the first time, the most attractive man in the bar wasn't him, and wasn’t looking at him.

He was looking at Vince.

Or, depending on your taste, Vince was the best.

Vince, twat that he is, didn't notice. Never notices.

Has no idea how much he's grown into his looks, how fucking hot he is now. And somehow Stuart doesn't have the heart to tell him.

Bastard, he thinks now. You didn’t want him, not tonight, not any night, but you can't bring yourself to do the right thing.

Admits in his own mind - you did want him. You do.

But how to say?

After all the years, how?

Can't.

Always relied on Vince to know.

Relied on him seeing it was time.

Only he hasn't, doesn't, and Stuart - Stuart doesn't have the courage to say, to ask.

So this night ended the same as so many others - Stuart shagging some nameless bloke, Vince - Vince doing whatever he does when he's alone. 

Wanking.

Watching sci-fi.

Crying.

Stuart bangs his head gently against the back of the seat. Not that.

No.

He hasn't made Vince cry for years.

Has he?

 

 

 

Lets himself into the hotel room, and for once he is almost discreet, almost quiet, almost considerate.

Almost.

But – he’s Stuart Alan Jones.

Can’t do anything without a spectacle, a drama.

So,

“You not asleep? Here I am, trying to be nice, not wake you, and look at you, nearly three in the bloody morning, sat there in front of some crap – what are you watching?”

Vince looks up, peers at the screen,

“Fuck knows,” he says, and shrugs, “it was Battlestar Galactica last time I noticed. Don’t think this is – unless they’ve fallen through a really strange wormhole – no, I don’t think so – don’t know. Golf? Or something? This might be the adverts. It’s hard to tell with Italian television. And there’s a thing – so many channels – but all of it’s the same really – “

He’d go on, but Stuart doesn’t have the patience.

“Whatever,” he says, and then, glancing at Vince as he strips, always glancing, always waiting for the day those eyes meet his, the day the sad bastard actually realises, sees him waiting, “you alright? You – shit, what happened? You been – crying?”

It’s not my fault, he wants to add, you should have stopped me. You really should have stopped me.

Vince shrugs, and his eyes slide away, 

“Might’ve, yeah. Bit.”

Silence.

Stuart goes through to the bathroom, not closing the door, pretending unconcern. Pisses, brushes vaguely at his teeth, tries not to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

Comes back through, and looks at Vince.

“When is it? Day after tomorrow? – no, tomorrow now – look, we can get a flight. No problem. I’ll phone Thrive, partner’s mother died – they love all that – compassionate leave. Fuck, they only pay me consultancy rates, doesn’t matter to them.”

Silence.

“You want – want to go on your own? Fine. Be like that. I’ll book you first class, you like that. Taxis. Hotel, where d’you want to stay? Whatever you want, Vince. You know that.”

Silence.

“Fucks sake. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry, alright. She’s dead, and you’re sad, and what the fuck do you want?”

Vince is still staring at the television, now seemingly engrossed in a property makeover show of which he understands not one word, seemingly enchanted by the busty blonde presenter, though Stuart has his doubts.

Gets into bed. Lies, looking at the ceiling, waiting, then,

“Oi, twat, I’m talking to you. Fucking answer.”

Vince shrugs.

“I said, I don’t want to go. No reason to go.”

Stuart picks up the remote, switches the tv off, turns out the lights.

“Twat.”

Turns onto his side, like he always does, back towards Vince, waits.

Feels the bed shift as Vince lies down, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Waits.

“I don’t know what I want. I want – it doesn’t matter what I want. I loved her, she was my mum. And she loved me. You don’t know how I feel – and you can’t make it better by spending money. So don’t ask, just – just let me be.”

Silence, Stuart waiting in case there’s more. An old trick, but it often works.

Not this time.

The minutes drag.

Silence.

Stuart wonders if that really is it, but waits.

“Drove me mental sometimes. I mean – I’d be out, right, you’d be – wherever – there’d be some bloke – nice bloke, nice enough, and I’d – just sometimes like – make eye contact, go over, and then – I’d see her. Out the corner of my eye. Just looking. Just being friendly, keeping an eye out. And he’d see, and grin, and then be like – oh, you’re the one with the mum. And I’d know – I’d just know – that was it. No chance.”

No, Stuart can see how that might have been a problem. Fuck, the thought of Hazel on the warpath – be a braver man than him to risk it.

 

“Didn’t know that happened.”

Shrug, the duvet moving slightly,

“Well, you wouldn’t. How would you? You’d be off with some shag – I wasn’t about to tell you,” he sighs, “that wasn’t the worst neither. You know what the worst was? Sometimes – not often – well, not really often – there’d be some bloke, seemed nice – ok at least – he’d come over, buy me a drink even, chat, and then – he’d be all – you’re the one with the mum, aren’t you? Would she – could I talk to her? They’d want her to sort out something – talk to their mothers – help with landlords, could be anything. Nothing really, sometimes, they just – wanted something – wanted her.”

But not you, Stuart thinks, not you, any more than that boyfriend wanted you. The one that chased after me, shagged you, went out with you for months to get to me. Fuck knows what his name was now. Any more than my stalkers wanted you when they woke you in the night, when they came round to yours to complain, to beg, to lock themselves in your bathroom leaving you to piss in the sink.

Fuck.

“Not an easy woman to live up to,” he says.

“No. Well. Not much to boast about really, was I? Work in a supermarket, go down the pub, go home and watch cheap science fiction.”

Silence a moment, Stuart wanting to say something, not knowing what.

“Not much of a Golden Boy,” Vince adds, and the response is automatic.

“Fuck off.”

And then, 

“She boasted alright. Anything you did – right from when I knew you – things from before that – used to make my mother sick. Don’t know what she thinks she’s got to be so proud of, mu – Margaret used to say, he’s a bit quiet. You need to watch out for the quiet ones.”

Silence.

“Da – Clive always used to wink at me when she said that. Like you’d got all these girls on the go.”

Silence.

“She’s been proud since I left,” Vince adds, “like running away was the best thing I ever did. Writes – wrote – to say.”

And I let her believe it. Let her believe it was worthwhile.

Lied over and over to let her believe you love me – the way I love you.

That we – finally – are together.

Shag.

Because that’s what I am. A liar.

And a coward.

“There you are then,” Stuart says, “happy ending all round. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

“Yes. Night then. Lots o’ love.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Christ, I haven’t seen you this pissed for years. Ever. Not since – fuck, I don’t know. Come on, Vince, Vinnie, Vincie-boy, come on, home now. Bedtime. Good boys go to bed.”

Vince laughs.

“No bed for you then,” he says, “you’ve never been a good boy.”

“So not funny, twat,” but Stuart can’t help but almost smile, even as he tries to keep the sneer in place, because – he honestly can’t remember the last time he saw Vince so out of control.

Thinks about that as they wait for a taxi, as he finds himself helping Vince in, listening to the stream of consciousness chatter – even worse than bloody usual – and that’s interesting, Vince does filter it down usually. He’d assumed not, that the random facts, inane gibberish, the background radio to his life, the sound he can’t bear to be without – assumed that it was all that went through his mate’s head. 

Apparently not.

“Like you saying Vinnie. You never say that. Mum used to – used to shout it out – god that was embarrassing – but – no good telling her. Never was. D’you remember that Nathan? ‘Course you do. His mum – she was going to turn out like Hazel. Almost made me feel sorry for the little bastard. Not quite. He’d cope, laugh it off. Little bastard.”

And somehow he can’t help himself, Stuart has to say it,

“Not so little,”

And off Vince goes again,

“Well, I wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t want to. He’ll be twenty-five now. D’you remember being twenty-five? I remember you. You thought you were getting old then, best days were past. All that. Then we had all the fucking issue with thirty. Six months of crusading it took you to come to terms with it. Six bloody months of bang, bang, bang – so fucking lucky, you are so fucking lucky you got away with it all. Twenty-five though. Jesus. You were fucking hot then. Didn’t half want to shag you. You had that jacket. Remember that jacket? And the split-level flat? And the sports-car? I liked that car. Was a good car. Nicer than the gay jeep really, I thought. Twenty-five. Imagine Nathan twenty-five.”

“Shut up,” because the repetition is too much, and the memories hurt.

“Oh, shut up yourself, you just don’t like that you’re nearly forty. Nearly forty. What d’you think’s going to happen? Not going to slow you down is it? Just a number, a date, you don’t have to tell anyone.”

“I won’t need to if you’re going to go round saying it. This the new Vince? Pissed? Christ, thank fuck, here we are. Out we come now, nice and steady, yes, well, stupid twat, you will hurt your head if you do that. Good thing you’re daft already, we won’t notice the difference,” turns to the driver, hands over some notes, “there you go, mate. Now, oh for – Vince – Vinnie – not wandering off over there, come on, back indoors, into the hotel, nice hotel, yes, come on. Shit. Twat.”

He isn’t as nice as Vince, Stuart reflects. Everyone knows – well, everyone who spends any time with them knows – Vince is the nice one, Stuart the sexy one.

This being so, his character irredeemably tarnished, he may as well take advantage of being sober, of Vince not being sober, to ask questions that would normally be stonewalled, blanked out – or cause an epic, days-long sulk.

“When was the last time you got drunk?” in the lift, start careful, approach the big question like a hunter, stealthy.

Shrug.

“Bad things happen when I get drunk,” and Stuart frowns.

“Like what?”

Shrug.

“’Cos last time I saw you really drunk,” as they walk – meander – from lift to room, “no, don’t fucking wander off while I open the door – the worst that happened was you told Hazel you were queer – in we go – we were queer – and I don’t remember that being a bad thing. Not as such. No, don’t fucking lie down in your clothes, I know you, you’ll be lurching about complaining later.”

Shrug. Eyes slide away, even as Vince obediently sits up, blinks owlishly at boots, obviously flummoxed by the knots in the laces, and then,

“You were so sick. Oh my god, yes, you were, d’you know, I’d forgotten that? You saying ‘pleased to meet you Miss Tyler’, like she was a teacher, then like you’d been practicing, ‘Stuart Alan Jones, bent as a three bob note’ – and then throwing up in the kitchen sink, stumbling upstairs. Christ you were sick. Stuart Lightweight Jones. She phoned your mum, Hazel did. Told her you were staying over, made up some crap about a school project needing finishing. You slept in my bed – had to get up every hour, check on you, check you hadn’t thrown up and choked yourself.”

Yes. You did, didn’t you?

Fourteen, pissed out of your skull, just outed yourself, and you still woke every hour to check on me. Probably cleaned the damn kitchen as well, if I know Hazel.

Best mate anyone could have.

But Stuart doesn’t say that. Instead, unlaces the impossible boots, moves them away from the trip-zone by the bed, and without asking gently unrolls socks, head bent down,

“Remember you standing there, all ‘sorry mum, I had a drink mum, this is Stuart mum, we finished your vodka mum, I’m queer mum. Sorry mum.’ Remember Hazel being furious about the vodka, saying we could have stuck to the cheap stuff. Remember being really, really sick, leaving you to be shouted at for the vodka. Don’t remember what Hazel said about us. First I remember is the next day, her lecturing us about drink. And being safe. Not taking alcohol from strange men. Use a condom. Don’t go into dodgy places until you’re big enough to look after yourself.”

Shrug. Fumbling with shirt buttons,

“She didn’t say much. Not sure it was a surprise.”

Not until after you’d gone home next day.

Waited until we were washing up from the huge breakfast she’d cooked us – ‘cos when you’re fifteen and you’ve thrown up all the alcohol and food the night before you wake starving – and then, when I couldn’t run away, she started.

“I thought that was how it was,” and I didn’t know what to say, “that you had – what do they call it – a crush on him. The way you talk about him. Stuart this, Stuart that.”

I didn’t say anything. 

Not that lack of response ever stopped Hazel.

“Look at you, flushing, red as a beetroot. Did you really think I didn’t know? Come to that, do you really think he doesn’t know?”

I just kept on, scrubbing at the plates, congealed yolk under my fingers. Thinking – shut up, please mum, shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.

Didn’t say it. No point. 

“He knows. And he loves it. Clever little bastard, he’s got you right where he wants you. Vinnie, you’re not even fifteen yet. Don’t – don’t go giving him everything. Please. Because it’ll mean too much to you – and not enough to him.”

As if I didn’t know that.

The way you talked about men, boys you’d had – hand jobs, blow jobs, that was all then – men you wanted. 

The way you never, ever looked at me like I looked at you.

The way you could touch me without realizing, leaving me burning, and you – you didn’t care. It meant nothing. You could strip in front of me without thinking, laugh and push, wrestle and hug. 

I knew how it was. So why did it hurt so much that she could see it?

“It’s only a crush. You’ll grow out of it,” and then she must have seen me shake my head, “no, I don’t mean – I’m not telling you it’s a stage, you’ll meet a nice girl and forget – if you’re gay, you’re gay, and that’s fine – fine with me, and we’ll talk about the law and that later – but Stuart – it’s just because he’s there, and the only person you know, and your friend. And he’s got all the awkward teenage growing and spots and fidgets over with early, I can see that. Please, love, if – when – he tries it on – don’t see anything that isn’t there.”

Wanting to say, but it might be there one day, it might. He might change. 

I’m not that bad, surely?

Even if I am spotty and fidgety and voice all over the place and – and all the rest of it.

Isn’t it worth the chance? Worth hoping?

I love him, mum. I can’t help it, can’t change it. I love him.

Knowing she was right.

Swallowing, nodding, the frying pan blurring from the tears in my eyes that I was damned if I’d let fall where she could see.

“It’s called a crush because that’s what it does to you – crushes you. Don’t – how you feel at fourteen, fifteen – it isn’t the way you’ll feel forever. You’ll meet someone else, someone really nice, someone who loves you.”

Like you have, mum? Only I’d never say that, never hurt her like that.

Besides, my fault – if I hadn’t come along, she’d be married with a whole load of kids by now. Nice house, no more watching the pennies, cutting out coupons. Good husband, maybe a daughter, maybe a whole load of boys. She’s a good mum, she ought to have more kids, ought to have more than this. Normal kids. Not stuck in this house, struggling every month, with just me to show for it. I know she’s lonely, I’ve heard her cry. She doesn’t say it, but – I’ve heard them talk in school – teenage pregnancy, disaster. They all say – get rid of it. And of course I’m glad she didn’t, but – I feel guilty.

So when she says – you’ll meet someone, I don’t believe her. Don’t believe everyone meets someone. ‘Cos if she hasn’t, and she’s – well, people don’t say it about their mums, but – she is, she’s great – then what are the chances of anyone wanting me?

“Honestly, love, I’m not trying to upset you, and I’m sure he’s a nice enough lad. Just – take care of yourself.”

Nodding again, putting the pan on the draining rack. Head down, rinsing the sink, wiping my hands dry, going up to my room. Shutting the door.

Lying on the bed, head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, not crying, I’m not crying, boys don’t cry.

Knowing she was right.

But oh god, I wish, I wish, I hadn’t listened.

I wish I’d had the guts to – to let you – not to run away that time, but just lock the door and – and carry on. Give you everything, as she put it.

It wouldn’t have meant anything to you.

I know that.

I’d have been devastated when you moved on.

But sometimes I still wish I had.

Because she was wrong about one thing. How I felt at fourteen, fifteen – it hasn’t changed. 

Except now, for a long time, I don’t really have that hope, that dream. I know you won’t ever turn and look at me different, won’t ever see me the way I see you, won’t ever touch me like that. I had chances, then because you were fourteen and desperate, and later, because you thought I’d leave you without – and every time I turned you down. Because I knew you never really wanted me to say yes. 

You won’t ask again.

But you do love me, in your way.

And that’s enough.

 

The memory plays out in so little time, Stuart doesn’t even register the pause before,

“Probably just relieved I wasn’t going to be getting some bird up the duff, landing her with another little bastard to look after.”

Frowns, even as he sorts out the difficult buttons, and because that isn’t the Hazel he remembers,

“Ah, go on, she’d have been great. Spoiled Alfie rotten. Shit. Poor little sod. He’ll miss her,” and for an instant Stuart almost adds – we have to go back, Vince, I need to be there for Alfie.

But Stuart Alan Jones doesn’t say things like that. Instead, he pulls Vince to his feet, walks him to the bathroom, carefully doesn’t watch him piss – Vince gets awfully shy sometimes – puts toothpaste on his brush for him, because the agony of watching the twat miss is just not worth the brief amusement. And a Vince who hasn’t cleaned his teeth will twitter on for days about the worry of tooth decay, and age catching up with them, and fuck that.

Besides, a fortnight on holiday together two or three times a year, presents in the post, what kind of father is that? What use is that turning up?

Alfie’ll be alright. He’s got his mums.

Dismisses it.

“So, what else happens when you get drunk? Why don’t you?”

Subtle, Stuart.

Shrug,

“Got to get you home, usually. Be no good both of us off our heads.”

Maybe. Hard to spot the lies when they’re filtered through a toothbrush.

“And when you’re out without me? With some boyfriend? You drink then?”

Did you trust them to get you home?

Did you trust them more than me? Let them see that side of you as well as the undone, panting, sex-flushed Vince that I’ve never seen? Not since that one glimpse, both of us so young, you so afraid, so desperate – your first time – and fuck, but I wish – I wish bloody Hazel hadn’t come home when she did. You’d have let me have you, I’d have been your first. 

Maybe it would have screwed us up. But maybe – sometimes I wonder – if I had, if you had – if you’d been there, under me, looking up at me – we’d have done it raw, because it would have been ok to. And maybe – maybe then – a lot of things would be different.

As it is – other men had all your firsts. Selfish of me to care, but I do. 

Did you trust all those boyfriends more than me?

“No. Best not.”

Don’t ask me why not, Stuart. 

Best not, because I don’t know if I could pretend when I’m pissed. Don’t know if I might – just might – make the mistake of saying your name when we shagged. And I don’t want to be such a fucking cliché.

“So when – you used to drink to get drunk. You stopped – stopped when I was away, at college – did something – Christ, did something happen then?”

Back towards the bed. How have I never thought about this?

What kind of best mate am I that I never asked?

Shrug.

“No.”

Not like you mean. Nothing changed, nothing dangerous or dramatic. I didn’t get jumped, or forget to be safe, or any of the nightmare scenarios we all pretend not to think about.

“Just realized – I couldn’t really afford to drink too much. Money. Having to get up in the morning, work. Stuff like that.”

Realized that I was going to spend my whole life waiting, so I’d better get used to it. Make the best of it.

Not fall into the trap of thinking a few drinks every night was going to help.

Vince closes his eyes, even though the lurching of the room is worse that way.

 

Not watching you strip, not now, not ever. Too tempting, too painful.

Stuart settles beside him, pulls the duvet straight, almost tucks it round, like he used to with Alfie.

But doesn’t kiss Vince good night. Tempting though.

Silence.

“There we go, bed. Light out. Sleep tight, Vince.”

“’Night Stuart. Lots o’ love.”

You always say that.

I used to have answerphone tapes with you saying that. It’d be voicemail now. Another reason to be glad I have the real thing instead.

Don’t remember anyone else ever saying that, not like that, like it was automatic, like I could take it for granted, trust it.

“Vince?”

I know you’re not asleep.

Ten years we’ve lived together, not that we call it that, moving from place to place, hotel to serviced apartment to hotel. Longer than the average marriage.

And that’s not counting the sixteen years before that. I know you.

I know how your breathing changes.

“Vince?”

Silence.

“Vince?”

“What?”

I don’t know how to say it, don’t know how to reach out and make you see I mean it.

I do love you, but you know that, you must do. It’s more than that.

I – want you.

At least, I think I do.

Maybe.

We could try.

How – how bad could it be?

Fucking – you and me – we could still have other shags like, that would be ok, sort of – best of both?

Would you do that?

If I said – I want you – want us – would that be enough? Or would you still be all cold and disapproving and shut me out?

Tries to form the words.

Vince – Vince – I want – to give it a go. You and me. Not exclusive, like – but – you and me.

Knows that won’t go well. Even this drunk, perhaps especially this drunk, Vince will tell him to fuck off. 

And mean it.

How to say it, how to persuade?

Then Stuart thinks of a way, of a promise made long ago.

“I’m old, Vince.”

Silence.

“Vince?”

He laughs.

“Go to sleep, Stuart. Long day tomorrow, things to do. Stop being a twat. Months till your birthday. Save the crisis till then.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Look at you, fuck but how did this happen? Forty. You cunt.”

And Stuart could kick himself, hearing the echo of ten years earlier, seeing the blink, the moment’s unease. The fear – yes, fear – that he has something equally unpleasant planned.

“No work today,” he adds, “thought, seeing as we’re here, we’d just – you know, do stuff. Tourist stuff. What d’you think – museum, Parthenon, out of town a bit – just sit and drink – you choose.”

And shit, but some things don’t change.

Vince is still a twat.

A cemetery.

A fucking cemetery.

It’s all very nice, and pleasant to stroll around, and if it weren’t Vince’s birthday, and Stuart wasn’t trying to be nice – it’s probably a good cruising spot. That bloke on the entrance was certainly looking.

Not today though.

Twat is twittering away, happily pointing out all the things the Athens guide says to look for. 

Stuart doesn’t really listen, just follows along, admiring the fit of those jeans, wondering how much longer they have to spend before drink and food and sitting in the sun looking gorgeous. 

Tunes back in suddenly as Vince stops.

“Here, at least, I think this is it. Thought you’d like this,” and oh for fucks sake, since when has he been interested in lovers’ gravestones? “not – not ‘cos of – well, anyway. They – look, just read it,” and he proffers his phone, but Stuart really can’t be arsed. That’s the sort of thing he has Vince around for. Leans back on a handy column – one thing about Greece, there’s always a ruin nearby to pose with – and raises an eyebrow. Vince makes that face, takes the phone back, and then “Harmodius and Aristogeiton. Lovers. But – rebels. They killed the tyrant. No, the tyrant’s brother. Or something. Brought down the government. Bang.”

Grins.

Stuart looks less than impressed.

“Just because – because he didn’t take them seriously. One of them – forget now – said no – and he didn’t want to hear it. Made life difficult. So they killed him. And became heroes. Lovers, but heroes. Queer heroes.”

Stuart grins back. Happy now.

Vince doesn’t mention they died horribly for it.

There’s a bit more graveyard to admire, but Stuart is half-reconciled now. Besides, it’s probably a bit early to hit the bottle, even for him.

Eventually twat is satisfied, and they can leave.

 

 

 

“So, ok, this – what’sisname – Matt,” Stuart takes a swig of wine, fails to keep his cool, “Starting to sound a bit too much like a boyfriend.”

Starting to sound a bit too much like someone who’s jealous, Stuart. Except of course, not to Vince. He’ll never hear it that way. He never hears the words you can’t say.

Vince flushes, laughs, looks away.

“Not a boyfriend, boyfriend,” he says, and then, “he’s just – nice. And – I don’t know. I quite like – you know,” he stops, and then, “no, maybe you don’t.”

Silence a moment, and Stuart chews on his lip, trying to understand.

Vince looks at him, then away, then back again, sighs, tries to explain.

“It’s not like – like I’m going to set up home with him. And he doesn’t want that. Just – he’s nice, we have a laugh, he doesn’t want anything permanent, longterm, he’s going back to the US soon enough, which suits me – and – Christ, Stuart, have you never – being with the same man – it’s nice.”

Stuart frowns, still clearly confused.

“Ok. Right, well, you know – am I really going to have to explain?”

Vince sighs.

“You really never been with anyone more than once? Apart from Nathan the chicken from hell, yes, I know, and let’s leave him out of it.”

Stuart wriggles, pouts,

“Never needed to. Always another one waiting.”

“Jee-sus wept. But – it’s nice – not because anything – not picking out curtains, like, but – shagging. You get to know what someone likes – he knows what I like – it’s just – nice. Easy, but – no, I don’t know. You really never tried – not even way back?”

Shrug.

“You know me, never needed to. I like everything, me. And they always love it. But – there’s always a better bloke, a new bloke, round the corner.”

Vince sighs again, rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, for the rest of us mortals – and anyway, it’s not about better bloke, just – like if you go to the same Costa they get to know how you like stuff? Like that.”

Stuart laughs,

“I’ll tell Matt shall I? He’s not today’s special, just the regular latte?”

“Fuck off, cunt,” but it’s laughing, and everything’s normal.

Except Stuart can’t help but wonder – is that the adventure he’s never had? Is that – repeat shagging – really different, better? 

Or does it just seem it because most of the men Vince ends up with are shit the first few times?

And a new, unwelcome layer of self-doubt slips in. What if – what if they did, and then – the next time it wasn’t better? What if Stuart couldn’t – didn’t – learn right? Or whatever it is that Vince is twittering on about?

Not just the old worry – not what if shagging is all he wants, what if afterwards he might see the emptiness – and that worry is almost gone these days, too long together to think that – not what if Stuart couldn’t resist temptation when it was laid out before him, like it is, it always is – and Vince might not forgive that – might not stop him, might just walk away and this time not come back – but, what if – after so long – what if he didn’t – couldn’t – get it right?

Shit.

Fuck.

Stuart doesn’t think like this, he’s Stuart Alan Jones for fucks sake. 

Definitely all of it best left alone, keep on as they are.

Besides, forty – forty isn’t really old. Not these days.

Time enough.

There’ll be a time, one day, and they’ll both know it, when it’s right, when they’re ready.

Time isn’t running out.

“You’re not seeing him tonight though, are you? We’re going out tonight. Dancing. Just us, like,” and Vince ducks his head, flushes, and no, of course not, yes, fine, sounds good.

Thinks he sends the text so surreptitiously, only Stuart knows Vince, and he smiles. Heard bloody Matt arranging a date for tonight, and whatever Vince thinks, it didn’t sound like someone who just wanted a friendly fuck – Vince never sees it, never. But this time – this time Stuart isn’t going to push him into waiting arms.

No, this time, Stuart is hanging on tight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forty.

Fucking buggery cunts.

Forty today.

Of course, however old Stuart is, Vince is that crucial three months older.

Even so.

Forty.

Lying staring at the wall, not looking at the time – it doesn’t matter – no work today. Never work on a birthday, some little tosser always finds out and thinks they’re being cheeky, funny, bit of a laugh when they comment. Stuart doesn’t do the buying cakes thing, or the going for drinks thing.

Used to, when he had a proper job, permanent office, colleagues he actually almost gave a shit about, Sandra – and there’s a name from the past. What happened to her?

Her little boy, whateverhisname was – used to bring in bloody photos, expect him to be interested. 

Fuck that.

Anyway.

He doesn’t do office social. 

Especially not today.

Forty.

Fuck.

Feels the bed shift beside him, a little sort of not-quite-grunt, not-quite-yawn, knows that is the particular little movement and sound of Vince waking.

Vince.

_He_ won’t say anything about the date – learnt not to over the years.

Forty.

Fucking buggery hell on a stick.

Feels Vince shift again, knows he is looking. Of course, all the extra years Vince has spent sleeping with the same man – all those bloody boyfriends – he learnt the tells much quicker. It’s almost impossible to fake sleep convincingly at either end of the day – if Vince wants to talk, he’ll talk.

“Stuart? You awake?”

Shrugs.

Feels a hand on his shoulder, and it’s nice, friendly. Comforting.

Fuck.

Stuart Alan Jones doesn’t think like that.

“You not working? So – breakfast – you want room service? Or go out? What d’you want to do today?”

Not be forty.

Christ.

I don’t want to be old, don’t want to be forty.

I was good at being young, I suited it. Going out, drinking, having a good time, getting laid – I was really good at it. Still am.

Only – it feels like an effort now. Joints creak, sometimes, hair not quite what it was. 

Can take bloody ages to get hard these days – minutes almost.

Some blokes – middle age, old, suits them. They don’t miss anything, doesn’t change them. Not really. Sensible blokes; boring types.

But not me.

Shit.

Forty.

Remembers his father turning forty, looking at him, hearing him say ‘ah, it’s only a number, you are what you feel, and besides – look at the alternative will you?’ Sounded like crap then, sounds like it now. 

Not only a number. It’s a number that counts off all the nights gone by, all the fun, all the youth – a number that says welcome to middle age, to getting fat, to hair loss, to trying too hard for too little gain.

Right now – right now the alternative doesn’t sound so bad.

Big crowd, lots of tears, speeches about how important you were – no, sounds good.

Christ.

Forty.

Older than bloody Phil, and there’s a name from the past.

Jesus Mary and Joseph.

Older than Cameron back then.

Forty.

Shit.

Vince has given up on waiting for an answer, and is faffing about on his phone – and that’s something – something Stuart can’t quite get used to. Vince, being competent and aware of things like how to use his bloody phone, apps, email, photos, music, all the rest of it. Bit like the whole – Vince is suddenly rather good at his not-quite-career thing. Not allowed to call it career, that sounds too grown-up apparently, but it isn’t a job. You can’t really call it a job. Writing the kind of excited chatter that Vince has always been prone to – only with more reviews, product placements – making friends and influencing people without even trying. No charm turned on, no image trundled out, just Vince, nattering away online, like he does and – people love it. Who’d’ve thought?

Well. Him. He’s always loved it.

And as for the real money-spinner – well.

That’s been quite an eye-opener. Real way with words Vince has. Who knew?

Anyway.

“Oh my god,” and Stuart rolls over, looks at Vince who seems to be in shock, staring at the screen in his hand, “fuck me rigid. Oh my god.”

Tempting.

“Is that my birthday present?” but Vince doesn’t seem to even hear properly.

“No, what? No. Fuck off, twat. No. Email. From mum’s solicitors. Probate through. Fuck. She – I didn’t know – did you know – she owned that house – how did she own that house outright? How did that happen? And – she left some to her policeman, but not all of it. It’s complicated but – fuck. I’m – oh my god – well, I guess – you want paying back? You want to go out tonight, celebrate? Oh my god. That’s quite a lot. Or I suppose – maybe I should do something sensible. Buy something. Invest. What do you invest in? Fuck knows. Oh my god.”

Stuart takes the phone, despairing of sense.

Looks.

Oh.

Ah, yes. Won’t tell Vince how Hazel owned the house. If she didn’t, why should he? None of Vince’s business. Wasn’t about him, not really.

About all the things he owed Hazel. All the times that house was open to him, that place felt safe, all the times it was easy to be with her. Just another one of those gay men who wanted Hazel on his side, really. No. She gave Vince that push, in the end. Sent him after Stuart. That’s why.

That and – well. He was worried. Didn’t want Vince to just hand over the cash from the sale of his flat. 

Didn’t want Vince to decide he needed to go home and sort Hazel’s money out.

Easier just to pay off the mortgage. Should have done it years ago; would have, if he’d known how tight things were.

Gave enough money to – to Margaret and Clive, to Marie and her little bastards over the years. Not that he begrudges the money to Marie, she’s alright. Little bastards are probably not so bad now, grown out of the worst of it.

Anyway.

Paying off Hazel’s mortgage felt right. After all, it’s what he’d have done for his own parents, if they hadn’t been such – Stuart stops that thought. No point.

Wonders if this is the moment, the way to change.

“All those plans we had. We could do it. Buy a house, flat, whatever you want, anywhere you want. If you like. Live together.”

Like we don’t already.

Shag, then. Start practicing this – whatever-it-is that gets better with repeats. Something new, something different. Maybe that’s what I need.

I feel old, Vince. I don’t like this feeling. 

Please Vince.

Save me.

You promised, promised you’d save me.

Waits.

Vince looks at him for a moment, a long, steady look.

He doesn’t flush, he doesn’t flinch and back away, he isn’t discomforted, or confused.

He laughs.

“Fuck off. I’m not growing up, not settling down. Can’t settle down if you don’t stop moving, right? Think you’re funny, you’re wrong. Twat.”

Stuart twists his mouth in a semblance of his patented sneer, laughs back.

Yeah.

Right.

 

 

 

 

“Did you see him? Did you? He looks alright, but then he dances like a twat,” and Stuart giggles, “like a twat. Crap. Who wants to shag that? Christ. I need another drink, come on, Vince, buy me another drink. It’s my birthday. You’ve got all that money, you pay. And drugs. Come on, find me some happy pills.”

“You’ve had enough, Stuart. Come on, time to go home.”

Stuart laughs.

“Got no home. Don’t want a home. No home. Always moving on, that’s me. Can’t catch me. D’you remember that film? D’you? The – the pretty boy – and – and the one – the knock-off Red Indian with the rifle – only no rifle in that one, blond – washing machines – Johnny – you remember that?”

“Yes, I remember. Come on then, Johnny.”

Of course I remember. My Beautiful Launderette. First gay film I ever saw. We went – you and me – you full of bravado, me terrified – and of course, no-one cared. Cinema, we looked over fifteen – you especially – they weren’t going to argue, weren’t going to care. 

Sixteen we were, going to watch a film about men finding each other again – friends from school falling in love.

Wanted so much to touch you, hold your hand, reach out.

Didn’t dare. 

Couldn’t even look at you.

You just said it would have been better with more sex, less talk.

I remember pointing out we wouldn’t have got in if it had been an eighteen.

Yeah, right, you said, and I knew – even then I knew – you’d caught someone’s eye, you weren’t listening, and I shut up, walked ahead, waited.

Gave up and went home alone.

“Ah, come on, Vinnie, I want to dance again.”

Yeah, right. You can’t even walk straight.

“Bedtime, Stuart. Come on. This time I’m stopping you now, before you get into a fight.”

I know it’s your birthday, but you’ve already had a shag – maybe more than one – I wasn’t counting, wasn’t watching what you were up to. Until you launched yourself at me, giggling, pissed, and slagging off everyone else in the club at the top of your voice.

‘Course, they might not all have understood you, English not being everyone’s language here, but still. Time to go, I reckon.

By the time they get back to the hotel, Stuart is off, flying high on – well, something, probably best not to ask what – and in that mood Vince loves, full of talk, laughing, remembering, planning more adventures. What haven’t they done yet, where haven’t they been?

Drinks from the mini-bar – and thank god, Stuart sticks to water, at least to begin, that should help with the morning – and then he’s sprawled out on the bed, talking, and wanting Vince to start searching for flights. For all Vince knows – from bitter experience – that planning and booking when Stuart is drunk isn’t a good idea, he’ll change his mind tomorrow, swear blind he never said half of that and Vince will be left to sort it all out, cancel, remake plans, calm people down – but for all that, he never could say no to Stuart in this mood, so laptop out, wifi on, and they start looking.

Comes a point where Vince realises he’s been talking to himself for a while, off in his own world, browsing possibilities – looks down, sees Stuart is spark out, head on his shoulder.

Mouth open, bit of drool.

Hair, from this angle you can see the grey starting to come through.

Just small crows-feet round the eyes, fine lines starting by his mouth, on his forehead.

Still beautiful.

Distinguished.

Bloody gorgeous.

Very, very gently, Vince manoeuvres himself out from under, makes Stuart comfortable, strips him, more or less, without even thinking about it, still wondering where to go next, what to do, what haven’t they done. Rolls him to one side and then the other, duvet over.

“Night Stuart. Lots o’ love.”

Powers down the laptop, turns off the main light.

Changes into pyjamas, into the bathroom, pisses, brushes teeth. Looks at himself in the mirror.

Sighs.

Alright, not so bad – respectable even – in shape, near enough, well, as much as he ever was, own hair, own teeth – but nothing to match that vision of perfection on the bed.

Not that it matters.

He wouldn’t want to – not now, not after so long. One night – and that’s all it would be, all Stuart is capable of, he’s come to understand over the years – one night of glory wouldn’t be worth losing all this.

Twenty-six years of friendship. Love even.

They don’t say it, but it is love. 

Requited alright. 

Unexpressed, but love the only way Stuart can accept it, the only way Vince can believe it – he knows that, knows both of them are flawed.

All the same – love. A friend to last you your whole life, and he winces, even at the thought, knowing the scorn Stuart would pour on him were he to know how close to his heart that naff Merchant-Ivory film is.

Still and all – it’s true, however much they don’t say it.

What’s sex compared to that?

Closes his eyes for a moment, knowing he is lying to himself. That if Stuart whistled, he’d come running – but worse, if Stuart offered him one night, really offered, meant it, really wanted to shag – he’d do it. Whatever the pain next day.

But Stuart doesn’t want it.

So pretending that sex isn’t important – is the only way to live.

Besides, forty now, another ten, twenty years – it might even be true.


	3. Chapter 3

“Romey, what the fuck do you mean – he doesn’t want to – this is Lisa, isn’t it? She doesn’t think two weeks in the Caribbean is good enough, is that it? Not fucking educational or some crap? Or – what? Did you get the dates wrong again – can’t have him miss one fucking day of school?”

Vince stops, just inside the apartment door, coffees and muffins in hand, listens to the well-known sound of Stuart Alan Jones having a temper tantrum.

Goes in.

Puts down breakfast, making – look, coffee – gestures, and takes the phone from Stuart’s hand as he glares at the cups, trying to see which is which.

Really might be time to have that conversation about glasses again.

“Hi Romey,” he says, calm, reasonable, “look, while he’s busy hating Starbucks – tell me. Do we need to change something?”

Listens.

Agrees.

Hangs up.

Looks out of the window for a moment.

Turns to where Stuart is resolutely not looking at him.

“It’s not Lisa,” he says, “and not Romey either. He’s just – Alfie’s fifteen. Remember being fifteen? He doesn’t want to go – come – on holiday with four adults – or two adults – he wants to be with his mates.”

Stuart doesn’t look at him, one hand playing with the wrapper from his – uneaten – muffin. 

“Stuart, it’s just – how teenagers are. He’s pushing it, because he can. Waiting to see if you’ll make a better offer. Come up with something more – I don’t know – whatever it is he wants. Or take a friend.”

Still no response.

“Fifteen. Remember fifteen? Christ, when did you do what your parents wanted? At least he’s telling you all.”

“Us all,” and the correction is quiet, almost automatic.

“Yeah, right. Maybe – ask him? What he wants to do? Or – or something?”

Shrug.

“Haven’t spoken to him since Christmas.”

Vince sighs.

“Text him then. Email. Use Facebook – Instagram – that’s the one he likes, isn’t it?”

Shrug.

Then, angry,

“You used to go on holiday with Hazel. Whatever crappy place she booked. You didn’t argue. Penzance – you were sixteen, you sad twat, and you loved it. Even without your dodgy electrician.”

Vince looks away.

“Yeah. ‘S different though,” sighs again, “long while ago. And – Hazel – well. It was a big deal for her. Saving up like.”

And I’m me.

Alfie – he’s more like you.

“He always liked it there before,” and Vince can see the lip chewing is happening.

He sighs,

“Yes, but – that was – a while ago. He was younger. Just being with Daddy was great. Kids change, grow up. Come on, Stuart, you don’t know what it is he wants. He might just want to bring a mate. Girlfriend,” and the look he gets for that is sharp, but – yes, Alfie is straight, so he told Vince last time, so Stuart will have to deal with it, “Ask him. Maybe you need to talk to him, not to his mum. Either of them.”

Stuart looks away, and then,

“Didn’t think it’d be this quick. That’s all.”

Gets up, downs the rest of his coffee, walks to the shower, naked and glorious as ever.

As ever, Vince has to swallow, and look away.

Remembers Nathan, suddenly; he was fifteen – and for the first time, almost feels a pang of sympathy for his father. Losing his little boy, not understanding what was going on.

Reminds himself he knows fuck-all about fathers and sons. Because whatever Hazel liked to think, one Saturday a month isn’t a father. Twelve days a year, perhaps a couple more – less than half the time Stuart spends with Alfie, and they’ve not lived in the same country for fourteen and a half of the fifteen years he’s been alive. Clive now – Clive was always there, give him that. Silent, not one to hug or chat or any of that – relating – stuff – like father, like son there – but still. He was around. Tried to show them how to change a tyre, how to dig a vegetable patch, how to wire a plug – things fathers are meant to show you. Not that Stuart ever listened, always sure he’d have people to pay to do that sort of thing, but still – the thought was there. Might have tried – did try, be fair – to talk about girls, once or twice. Being careful, not getting anyone into trouble – and that was excruciating. Stuart, stood there, chewing his thumbnail, looking away like none of it had anything to do with him, like it wasn’t his problem – and fair enough, it wasn’t, and he probably had used more condoms than Clive by that time. Not that Clive was one to discuss methods, just – a warning. Still, it’d have been nice if Vince hadn’t had to be the one answering, blushing, saying Yes Mr Jones, I understand Mr Jones. But then, that’s what he was there for – to do the making nice Stuart couldn’t be bothered with.

No change there, then.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He remembers all this, the phonecall, the pain on Stuart’s face, his own thoughts, a month later, and pushes down the urge to just walk away from the four of them.

It is his problem – if not him, who else?

Who other than Vince Tyler is there to try and keep the peace, to cajole Alfie and Stuart into at least trying to spend time together, to reassure Romey that no-one thinks a grumpy teenager is a reflection on her parenting, to try and prevent Lisa blaming Stuart for every single thing – for every moment of every day that he isn’t there?

You wanted Stuart’s genes, he thinks again.

What did you expect?

You got the looks, the brains, the charm when he can be bothered – of course you got the temper and the selfishness as well.

Did you think that was purely Margaret and Clive’s fault?

Of course, he doesn’t say any of that, simply concentrates on trying to make as much of the ten days pleasant as is possible.

Which is why day four, and he’s washing up – and just once, it would be nice if one of these places came with a dishwasher that actually bloody worked – after a late, very late, breakfast, when he hears the argument.

More accurately, what he hears is his own name, an indrawn breath from Romey beside him – Lisa having sodded off to a café with better wifi muttering about work, Romey is drying up – and then he blinks, hearing the replay in his head of the sentence.

“How can you be such a fucking bastard to Vince? It’s like you don’t care – don’t pretend you don’t know how much he hates it when you go out like last night.”

Oh shit.

Now Stuart will think he said something, and he didn’t – why would he – it isn’t a surprise, he doesn’t mind, he’s never minded, not really, not enough to dwell on – they come to a party island like Tenerife, Stuart will find a gay scene to cruise. 

They go anywhere, Stuart will find a gay scene to cruise.

If there isn’t one before they arrive, there will be once Stuart sets foot in town.

And of course, the eloquent response,

“Fuck off. What the fuck do you think you know about anything? He’s not my boyfriend, I don’t _do_ boyfriends, it’s nothing to do with him – and it’s nothing to do with you, you little tosser.”

Oh great.

Vince sneaks a look at Romey, wondering what she makes of this fatherly endearment, but she knows Stuart – she sighs, and shrugs.

He supposes she lives with Alfie. And Lisa.

Maybe that’s what teenagers are like, what they cause other people to be like. He wouldn’t really know – him and Hazel weren’t exactly usual in their relationship.

But of all things, Alfie seems to be laughing,

“Oh Dad,” and since when did Stuart let himself be called that, “I do know. I know exactly the words for the two of you, which is probably more than you do. You’re aromantic, but hypersexual, and Vince – Vince is asexual, well, gray-asexual, but panromantic.”

There’s a stunned silence outside.

And inside.

Vince doesn’t quite know how to take that – isn’t entirely sure what it even means – looks at Romey for a clue, but she shrugs, as lost as he is.

“What the _fuck_ are you on about?” Stuart has found his voice.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and I understand – you’re a couple, but – you need sex, lots of sex, only you can’t feel any kind of romantic love, you don’t even understand what it means, not really. You just think of him as a good friend. Because you can’t feel different, you just don’t have that,” and the complete confidence in Alfie’s voice is almost persuasive, persuasive enough at least to keep Stuart quiet, let them all hear the next part, “and Vince – Vince loves you, Vince could fall in love easily, with a lot of people, men or women, he’s like that, but he chose you, and he’d walk through fire for you,” Vince blushes, remembering a brief yogic retreat in India and hot coals, “but even so – he doesn’t really feel desire. He loves you enough to go to bed with you, because it matters to you, and I expect he quite enjoys it, but – there’s no real need for him. But I still think you’re a bastard to go out and get it elsewhere.”

Vince is almost laughing now.

Doesn’t really feel desire.

No, Alfie, every day and night for thirty-one years, longing and wishing – that’s not desire. That sick ache, that jealousy thick enough to smother out the oxygen in the air, that’s got nothing to do with desire.

 _Quite enjoys it_ – that he might – that anyone might – _quite enjoy_ sex with Stuart is just – so understated, it’s funny.

You have to laugh. Laugh or cry, surely.

Romey catches his eye,

“I don’t know where he gets it all,” she says quietly, “but – on the whole – up until now, it’s been harmless. A different way of thinking, but – it’s how they are these days. The words they use. At least they’re thinking, open to difference – that has to be good, surely?”

Vince nods, because yes, surely.

But from the sound of it, Stuart doesn’t agree.

“You stupid little twat. Vince is as queer as I am, takes it up the arse and loves it – he’d be out there shagging as much as me if he thought he’d pull anyone worth having. We don’t fuck, because we’re just friends – and because I don’t fancy him. No blood. No hard-on. Never have. That’s it, it’s that simple.”

Vince concentrates very hard on what he is doing, on scrubbing a frying-pan, and from somewhere a memory hits him of doing this before, scrubbing and scrubbing, not looking at the woman next to him, not letting the hurt show, the tears fall. He knew all that, it’s hardly a surprise.

After all, if Stuart did fancy him – had ever fancied him – he’d have had him.

Just like he has everyone else.

To hear the words said though. Said so easily, casually, as though it isn’t even very interesting, as though it doesn’t really matter. Even after so long knowing it, that still hurts.

But, give Alfie credit, he has his father’s guts.

“You can say all of that,” he says, “but you don’t know what love is, romantic love or any love do you? You can’t deny that. You don’t really love anyone but yourself – not Nanna and Granda, not me, not Vince. So don’t pretend you do, don’t lecture me like you care the way mum or Lisa does. Just fuck off, _dad_ , and stop pretending to give a shit – pay the bills and wait for the return on your investment, whatever it is you want out of me – I’ll be a success at something, give you something to brag about one day,” there’s a pause, as though Alfie is waiting to hear Stuart’s opinion, and then, “and you’re still a bastard, you still treat him like shit – treat everyone like shit – so just fuck off and stop pretending you care.”

And now Vince and Romey can hear the hurt in his voice, the raw pain, and they both turn, wanting to react, to comfort, both of them seeing in their minds not the poised and competent young man Alfie is on the verge of being, not even the awkward and diffident teenager he is, but the little boy he used to be.

But it’s Stuart who comes flinging in from the terrace first, Stuart who, with a face sealed shut and cold walks past them and out into the bright sunlit day, heading for a bar and oblivion.

And probably a shag or two.

Automatically, Vince would turn to go after him, make sure he doesn’t get into trouble, but something stops him, and instead he follows Romey outside.

Alfie is sat by the pool, looking – and Vince’s heart aches – looking so like his father, except – and Vince supposes this is something Romey and Lisa should be proud to have achieved – except that when he sees them, he doesn’t try to hide the pain, he just shrugs,

“He was going on about school, about exams, and A-levels, uni – what do I want – and I don’t know, I don’t know for fucks sake. I don’t care, I’m on holiday aren’t I? And – he doesn’t understand about Emily.”

Nor does Vince. He looks from mother to son, hoping for explanation, and Romey says,

“Emily is Alfie’s girlfriend. They’ve – oh you didn’t tell Stuart – you did, you told him about the Plan?”

Alfie shrugs,

“I wasn’t going to, I know you said don’t, but he just went on and on and he wouldn’t shut up asking.”

She turns to Vince,

“The Plan is to go to the same university, so they can stay together. Maybe even marry before they go, that way they’d live together as well,” there’s a look on her face that says she isn’t wild about this idea, but – she met Lisa at nineteen, she doesn’t really have a leg to stand on here. And she knows it. She’s got that look like she’s asking Vince not to say anything – and for that matter, Vince doesn’t see what he can say. So he doesn’t.

Not about that.

He sits down, and just waits for Alfie’s indignation, Romey’s reassurance to run their course.

Then,

“Have you got a picture,” he asks, “of Emily, like? Be nice to know what she looks like. And what’s she into? You didn’t mention a name at Christmas, just that you weren’t gay. Which wasn’t really a surprise, not to me, though I think Stuart maybe – well. Anyway. Picture.”

And of course Alfie has one, lots in fact, on his phone. And can talk about her for – hours, seems like.

She sounds nice enough, though Vince thinks he might ask Lisa for a more – considered – opinion.

Eventually the lecture runs down, and Alfie stops.

Romey’s gone in, not being one for the now-midday sun. Vince didn’t used to be, but – live with Stuart long enough, trapesing round the world, you get used to it.

He lets the pause grow, and reflects he really is getting older, doesn’t feel the need to chatter on quite so much.

Then,

“Alfie, what you said – to your dad, Stuart – it isn’t true. He loves you. No, listen a minute. I know, he’s a selfish, overbearing cunt – most of the time. But – he loves you. He asks – and asks – and I know, I know, he always bloody knows best – but – you have to understand, Mr Jones, Clive – your Granda – I don’t know what he’s like with you, but with Stuart – he never asked anything. Never. I think he just – didn’t know what to ask. So he kept quiet. Waited for Stuart to say – and he never did. And Mrs – your Nanna – she only heard the good stuff. Stuart couldn’t do anything wrong – Marie couldn’t get it right – ever. Until she got married, then that was the best thing she’d ever done, only then – then they were desperate for grandchildren. Anyway. He’s just – he’s trying to talk to you. To know. To – be interested. That’s all.”

Alfie shrugs,

“Not up to him where I go, what I do. Just because he’s paying – “

“It isn’t like that,” and Vince thinks, knowing that Stuart has always used money as a substitute for any other way of showing affection, adds, “Not much, anyway.”

Alfie shrugs again, impossible to tell whether he’s listened.

Vince sighs, stands up, ready to go and – and what? No point looking for Stuart – if he wants finding, he’ll phone. Go and get his book then. Or his laptop – there’ll be emails to answer, notes to make, even if he can’t really work with Alfie around.

Remembers the other thing.

“He doesn’t treat me like shit. If you think that, you don’t understand the first thing about us. And, whatever you think, whatever other people think – I wouldn’t change things for the world. Don’t know what you think is romantic, what love is, but – I know what it is to me. And your dad, my Stuart – he’s the most romantic, loving bastard there is. In his own way. And that’s enough – for both of us.”

He doesn’t look at Alfie as he says it, doesn’t look at anything but his feet.

It’s true, but he doesn’t like having to say it.

Straightens up, feeling the muscles twinge from the crappy sunlounger he’s been sat awkwardly on.

Meets Lisa’s eye, where she’s stood, about to remind Alfie about sunscreen, see what the plan is for the rest of the day – probably going to ask where Stuart is, as though Vince has some kind of radar tracking device. And that’s something he’s half-wished for, over the years.

Realises she must have heard most of that.

 

Sees the pity.

Sets his teeth, stubborn.

It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.

That’s his truth.

And he walks indoors.

 

 

 

 

 

Day five, of course, starts far too early in the morning, his phone ringing waking him from the Stuart-dream, the one that hasn’t really changed in all the years. The dream of missed chances, lost opportunities, and at least the immediate demands of the phone mean he won’t lie aching with regret and longing – at least he isn’t going to have to hide his misery on waking from the person who knows him best of all. Not this time.

“Vince, you have to come and get me,” predictable, the reason he didn’t drink last night, and he doesn’t even sigh as he rolls out of bed, pulls on shoes – he went to sleep dressed respectably enough for such a call – and picks up the carkeys on his way out of the villa.

Of course, Stuart doesn’t know exactly where he is, or how he got there – well, taxi, apparently, but no idea of the route – so it takes a while to find him.

But it’s a warm sunny morning – or it will be when the sun rises fully – there’s hardly anyone about, it’s a nice car to drive – why complain?

Stuart wants him.

What could he possibly have to complain about?

They drive back in silence, until Vince has parked and turned off the engine.

“Don’t shout at him,” he says, looking straight ahead, “he didn’t mean anything by half of it. He just – he’s fifteen.”

Stuart shrugs,

“He was having a go at me. Everybody always has a go at me. My own son, having a go at me.”

“Yeah, well. He didn’t mean anything much. Let it go. Just – try and enjoy the next few days?” and Vince gets out of the car.

Stuart follows him to the bedroom in silence, then strips, heading for the shower.

“Fifteen,” he says, “and he’s talking about marrying this girl. Spending his whole life with some twat he met at school. Jesus,” he shakes his head, “what a fucking mess.”

Vince feels his mouth twist,

“Yeah,” he says.

 

 

 

 

But despite all of it, the second half of their stay goes well.

Romey and Lisa are good company, but happy to be able to go out on their own in the evenings, happy to be free from the onerous duty of constantly feeding a growing teenager.

Alfie enjoys the sun, the swimming, the food – and, when his mothers aren’t around, the alcohol. He talks freely, to Vince, about Emily, about the Plan, and after a bit of encouragement, he and Stuart even manage to discuss possible A-levels, because this holiday is to set him up for the exams in the summer, and after that – after that, he’ll need to be making decisions. Only briefly though, in the interests of no more arguments, of enjoying the holiday. Mostly, they’ve been competing and sharing tips on the new Grand Theft Auto game – when Lisa isn’t looking, GTA not being approved. When she’s around, it’s Call of Duty. Because, apparently, that’s much more suitable. 

Vince hasn’t ventured an opinion on that one.

After all, Alfie isn’t his son.

It’s the last night – Alfie’s last night, Stuart has decided that there are so many things they have yet to do, he and Vince will be staying on for a bit – Lisa and Romey are out again, walking on the beach in the moonlight they say, though who knows – and the three of them are sat out by the pool, looking across the bay, when Stuart decides again to attempt some paternal advice.

In his own special way.

“Bought you these,” he says, and throws a packet of condoms to Alfie – who, automatically from years of cricket, matches where he was never the only one without a father watching, so why complain – catches it and then looks horrified, “good make, supposed to be the right sort for –“ he makes a vague gesture, presumably meaning, Vince thinks, vaginal sex, words Stuart is unlikely to be comfortable saying, “you’ll have to buy your own after that, but it’s easier when you know what to look for.”

And there’s a sentence with a world of autobiography in. Vince swallows, remembering a young Stuart full of bravado, daring him to come and look at condoms in Boots. Compare and contrast. Which ones say suitable for anal on the packet. 

Remembers standing watching while Stuart bought them.

Remembers the ache that this was the only part of the proceedings that concerned him.

Now, he understands that Stuart couldn’t have done it, couldn’t have been who he was – is – without him watching, but at the time – it hurt to stand and watch, to know he’d missed his chance to say – but we don’t need them – we never will. If we – if – so many ifs, over the years.

Alfie, and again one must give him credit for guts, almost perceptibly grits his teeth, shakes his head and says,

“I told you, Stuart, it isn’t like that. We don’t – we want to wait. We’re not even sixteen yet – technically it’s not legal. And we don’t mind waiting.”

Vince, who hadn’t heard about this, blinks, but Stuart is ready,

“I know that’s what you said. Very commendable. But – doesn’t hurt to have them there ready. Keep them wrapped up, they don’t go off for a while,” though how he would know, Vince has no idea, because the rate he gets through them they never get the chance, “just being – careful. That’s a whole world of trouble you don’t need. Good habit to get into as well.”

Alfie clenches his fists, tips his head up, looks Stuart in the eye, 

“Not a habit we’ll need. Plenty of other ways not to get pregnant, and we don’t need to worry about anything else. We never will. And I can control myself you know, we’re not going to get carried away. We’re fine waiting. We’ve got a Plan, and we’ll stick to it,” he gets up, putting the packet on the table, “think I’ll go to bed now. Early flight tomorrow, long day.”

He walks away, and then turns,

“But thanks Vince, I appreciate the thought.”

Once again, Vince misses his cigarettes, the way they covered social awkwardness.

“You could give them to Lisa,” he tries, “tell her to keep them in the bathroom or something. Just in case, like. Wouldn’t hurt,” but Stuart isn’t listening.

He’s staring after Alfie as though he’s seen a ghost, and then he gets up, follows him indoors.

He finds him, as he should have expected, in his room, typing out a text. Alfie looks up, shocked; his parents – none of them – are not given to simply marching into his bedroom, here or anywhere else, and his mouth opens to protest as Stuart shuts the door.

“Shut up,” he says, “shut up, you silly – just listen. Fucks sake, what are you playing at? Waiting? Waiting for what? They don’t suddenly come and say – now you can – give you a medal for behaving yourself – you want the Church’s blessing? Have it, two months – whatever it is – get married on your damn birthday if you like – or hers – but fucks sake, son, don’t bloody wait. Don’t – don’t just – if she’s more than a friend – fucks sake do something about it. Shag. If you love her – if you love her then – “ he moves his hand, helplessly, inarticulate, and their eyes meet for a long moment.

Alfie nods,

“Ok, Stuart, dad, I – it’s ok. Thanks,” and then with all the confident superiority of a teenager, “do you think you should be saying this to someone else? Not me.”

Stuart clenches his jaw, and looks away.

Shrugs.

“Nothing to say,” he says, and leaves the room.

 

 

 

 

 

After they’ve gone, waved off at the airport, vague plans made to meet in the summer, after exams, perhaps over results day, celebrate or commiserate together – and Stuart manages to sound enthusiastic about meeting Emily, even if it isn’t entirely convincing – the two of them drive back to the villa.

“Breakfast out?” Vince asks, knowing Stuart will be feeling low, like he always does when Alfie goes, not sure what the best thing to suggest is.

Stuart shrugs, 

“Could do with checking work,” he says, and then, “yeah, right, breakfast first. Might take the iPad though. Then I can do both. You can bring it back here if I go on out.”

“Yeah, course,” because I won’t go on, will I?

They sit in silence over plates of full English, mugs of coffee and beers to follow, each of them catching up on neglected email, Vince making notes to write up later, Stuart flicking through possible ideas to pitch.

“Rome next,” he says, “client. Not sure when. Villa’s ours for – what?”

“Two more weeks,” Vince smiles, he likes Rome, “time to scuba. I’ll go over, book for tomorrow? Do it later. Look for flights and somewhere nice in Rome later. Car. God, you driving in Rome. Still, you’ll enjoy the carabineri. And what else did you want to do while we’re here?”

Shag, Stuart thinks.

Looking at him, sat there, smiling, easy, confident – relaxed in himself – suddenly it’s so easy to think it. I want to shag you.

I don’t want to go out hunting, making the effort, using lines and moves, I just want to – reach out and have you.

Remembers the ease of Romey and Lisa, and god knows, they aren’t people he’d want to be, but – they have each other, all the time. Reach out and hold hands without thinking – and not just to wind up bigots, not just for fun, not just because they can. Must be nice, that.

Not for the first time, he wonders what the fuck to do about this. This willful blindness on Vince’s part. Is he blind, or – does he just not want it anymore?

Given up.

Has he, Stuart, left it too late?

He doesn’t answer, lost in thought, in doubt, and Vince chunters on for a bit, as he does, and then stops, absorbed in something on the screen in front of him, then typing, lost in his own world.

Silence again, an easy, comfortable silence.

Stuart chews his lip as he types, thinks, types again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me now, some weeks later, that i should perhaps put a note here. I am not, and i would have hoped this was obvious, but it maybe isn't, particularly if you don't know me, joking or meaning disbelief of people who identify as asexual, or aromantic, or any of the other terms. If Alfie is using them wrongly, then that's because he is struggling to find words that make sense of what he sees/knows of his father & Vince - and he's maybe got the wrong words even for what he thinks they are. If Stuart seems, well, rude, frankly, then that's in character, i think. I love SAJ as a character, he's a lot of fun, but he is not at all bothered by other people's sensibilities - its one of his strengths, sometimes, and sometimes its horrendous. He uses the words lesbian/dyke/straight as insults, and i dont think he would be any more understanding or respectful to any other identity.  
> i don't think there is any reason, canonically, to believe Alfie's definitons are right, though i suppose you could choose to write the characters that way. Stuart knows damn well what love means, even if he is rubbish at expressing it, and Vince - Vince shags his way through season 1, at least, despite all his "oh poor me sitting waiting" protestations.


	4. Chapter 4

Rome again.

Vince loves Rome. Every time he has to shake himself to be sure he is actually here – every time he insists on going to the Colosseum, even though Stuart will be badly behaved with all the dress-up not-quite-legionaries. First time they came, they went to St Peter’s, and Stuart, lapsed and resentful catholic that he is, took great pleasure in holding hands, draping himself over Vince all the way round.

Not that anyone seemed to care. 

Still, it made him happy, made Vince brave, and after all, that’s the main thing.

This time they’ve got a serviced apartment, very nice, modern inside but proper traditional building on the outside. And an underground garage. And a fancy car for Stuart to play in.

Vince chose well.

He always does.

Work is under control – work is always under control – few more days, make sure they think they’re getting value for money – but otherwise – things aren’t right.

Here and in Tenerife, going out – there isn’t the edge to it somehow.

He looks round the bars, round the clubs, and – they’re all just kids. Closer to Alfie’s age than his.

Alfie.

Shit.

Brave little fucker. And where did he get that from? 

Stuart doesn’t know, because it sure as hell isn’t him.

Doesn’t want to think about it. So he doesn’t.

Just gets on, work, go out, drink, dance a bit, get sucked off in the bogs, drink some more, go back to bed. Curl up next to Vince. 

On his side, facing away, Vince on his back, staring at the bloody ceiling. 

Might as well be a bloody mile of bed between them, still, after all these years.

 

 

 

“Meet you this evening, usual place?” he asks over coffee, about to leave, and Vince – Vince shakes his head, grins a bit, looks down,

“Seeing Matt, aren’t I? Told you. Remember Matt? The American,” and what is it with Vince and colonial accents, “bumped into him the other day. He’s still single, so – makes sense. Pick up where we left off. You have a good time. See you – tomorrow, I should think.”

Fuck.

Five sodding years, near enough six and the bastard’s turned up like that?

That’s serious.

Stuart nods, walks out the door.

 

 

 

Over a week later, and it’s the first evening they’ve spent together since. Matt has a nephew come out to Italy, apparently, on a gap year, or something, not that Stuart gives a fuck, but Vince has been twittering on.

Still and all, it’s nice to hear him, nice to be back to normal.

Then, after they’ve paid for dinner, as they’re standing by some fountain or other – everywhere in Rome, bloody fountains – Vince staring into it, Stuart leaning on his back, arms wrapped round his waist, he suddenly says,

“Matt’s asked me to go with him when he leaves. Goes home. Boston. I liked Boston, could go. Says he missed me – we’ve emailed but – anyway. I might go. For a bit, like. You could go to Manchester. Alfie, Marie – see them, you know? I’ll catch up with you later. If you want.”

Stuart feels sick.

Too much cream in the pasta. Shellfish. That’s all.

“Fuck off then,” he says, but he takes Vince’s hand. Fumbles in his pocket for change, head still on shoulder, not easy and Christ, when did Vince’s arse start feeling so good pressed close like that?

Puts the first coin into their joined grasp, swings their arms, throws. Other arm gripping Vince, thumb tucked into belt loop, holding him close.

“Stuart?”

Second coin.

“What – what are you doing?” 

Does it one more time.

“What does it look like, twat?” he asks, panting, “three coins in the fountain. Isn’t that the charm? Now we have to come back. Together.”

Vince laughs, half-embarrassed, like he always is.

“I’d’ve come back,” he says, but Stuart shakes his head.

“Not you. He’s not daft, that Matt.”

Vince smiles.

“I don’t think this is the right fountain,” he says, and then, “it’s alright, Stuart. I’m not going anywhere you don’t want me to. You don’t have to say it.”

Stuart nods, holding on tight.

They stand awhile, and then walk back to the flat.

 

 

Vince comes out of the bathroom, walks over to the bed.

Blinks.

Walks round to the other side.

First time in all these years, Stuart is on the left. 

Gets in the right, and – yes, he’s sound asleep.

Lucky bastard just has to lie down to go straight off. Reward for a life lived free of regrets, or concern, Vince has always suspected.

He lies there, waiting for sleep to come.

Wonders what all that with the fountain meant this evening.

 

 

Sometime in the night, he half wakes, something warm and heavy and – Stuart – on top of him.

Not a dream.

Not drunk, not high, not moving, just – draped over him, holding him tight. Head buried in his neck.

Not asleep, but maybe still not fully awake.

Vince puts his arms round him, holds him tight.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says again.

 

 

 

 

Stuart doesn’t say anything the next morning, but Vince finds himself phoning Matt anyway.

“Bit of an emergency, I’m really sorry,” he starts, and then, “at least – no. I’m not sorry. Matt, I can’t meet you. It isn’t fair. I shouldn’t have kept on emailing. I’m not going to come to Boston, I’m not – I’m not going to leave Stuart.”

Listens.

“I know, I know what you’re going to say, I know all of it. It doesn’t matter. You’re a nice guy, and I shouldn’t have done this. I just – don’t have space – don’t have – energy – for anyone else.”

There’s a bit more, and he feels bad, but somehow – not as bad as he would have expected.

After all, he knew how Matt felt – he isn’t stupid – and he knew he didn’t feel the same. Only – recently – Stuart’s been restless, difficult, unpredictable – he smiles, well, more unpredictable than usual. And he wondered – thought maybe Stuart wanted him to clear off – have a bit of time apart.

Apparently not.

He doesn’t make a big announcement of it, just casually allows it to become clear that – no, Matt isn’t around, or rather, he is around, but Vince isn’t seeing him.

Wonders if the new sleeping arrangement will stop – but it doesn’t.

Nothing else changes, Stuart’s still going out, presumably still copping off, though he doesn’t give all the gory details these days – hasn’t for a while, actually – but every night, there he is, on the other side of the bed to begin and then wrapped over Vince like a second duvet.

Thank god for air-conditioning, Rome in the summer – this would be ridiculous otherwise.

Alfie texts, end of his exams, to say they’ve gone ok, he thinks. And thanks for the money, he’s saving up. Well, they are. Because it won’t be that long until they want a house, and the way prices are these days they need a good deposit.

Stuart doesn’t know what to think.

“Does he think I won’t give him the money when he needs it? Is that what that bitch Lisa has told him?”

“I think he just – wants to be independent, sensible,” Vince says, and then, “maybe Emily doesn’t have much cash, so he doesn’t like to spend it all.”

Stuart frowns,

“Why wouldn’t he just – spend it on her? On something they both want? Suppose they have phones, but I don’t know, what do they want?”

Vince shrugs, how would he know?

“I’ll wait. Buy him a car next year – put her on the insurance I suppose,” and when he looks at him, surprised, Stuart shrugs, “why not? Christ, remember the hassle before I got you on mine? Was a bloody pain,” pauses, “’course, that assumes they both learn alright. Took you ages.”

“Didn’t have anything to practice on, did I? Was just lucky Dudley stumped up for lessons really.”

Shrug.

“Pretty crap father if he didn’t.”

Vince shrugs,

“Yeah, well. Anyway. We seeing your boy anytime – where next?”

Stuart grimaces.

“Doesn’t want to leave Emily – her parents don’t want her going off to stay with people they’ve not met – Lisa and Romey can’t get time until the end of August – and I don’t want to spend another bloody fortnight with them. So – no. Guess not.”

Silence.

Vince just sits there, thinking.

Doesn’t want to go back.

Never go back, they said. And all these years, that’s been fine.

He really, really doesn’t want to go back, see people he hasn’t seen in so long, not see people who aren’t there, be the person he used to be. Let everyone see how it is, Stuart still copping off, him still following. Lie.

That was why he was wondering about Boston. Try and act like – like Stuart isn’t the most important person in his world. More to the point, get Stuart to go back, see Alfie at home for once.

“London,” he says, slowly, “what about – London, or somewhere, Wales, I don’t know, somewhere not too far, he could come for the day at least.”

And now, now he knows Stuart is getting old, because he doesn’t pour scorn, or swear, or dismiss the idea of compromise. He just nods, slowly thinking. 

“Yes,” he says, “that might work.”

And Vince aches with a new fear.

Stuart is getting old, but still – still doesn’t want him.

Now even that hope needs letting go. 

It simply isn’t meant to be.

Time to forget the Stuart-dream.

 

 

 

 

London then. And it isn’t the first time they’ve been there, but somehow – something is different this time.

Maybe it’s just being older, Vince thinks, wryly, maybe people just don’t care so much when two older men walk together.

Maybe times have changed a little.

They’ll be here a while, one thing and another, so it’s a flat, serviced, but still – bit more homelike than a hotel. Easier with Alfie coming down.

He comes quite a few times, seems to have made up with Stuart – for now – and one weekend he brings Emily.

Just for the day, just for lunch.

She seems nice enough. Not – well, not quite what Vince would have expected, somehow. Confident, not full of herself, but not quiet and intimidated either.

She isn’t fazed by Stuart, or by the two of them, and that’s a point in her favour – though he supposes she wasn’t likely to be. After all, she knows Romey and Lisa, and Stuart is on his best behaviour, almost as good as if he were at work.

She’s full of the Plan, and A-level choices, and what universities they are looking at – and Vince finds to his surprise that there is still a part of him that envies that. But it was never going to happen, he wasn’t bright enough, not then, things were different, less places, not many people went – not from his sort of background, not without real brains. And you needed a good record – not average achievers, quiet in class, not overly popular, not sporty – sort of kid who floods the gym. At the time – he didn’t mind, not really. It wasn’t something he’d ever expected, nor Hazel. 

Still.

No point complaining now though.

Later, Vince is finishing washing up when Emily comes out, and he’s about to tell her she doesn’t need to help, when she says,

“I know, you probably don’t need another person out here, but Alfie wanted to talk to Stuart, and I – he wanted me to look at your bracelet.”

Vince looks at it, there but unseen after so long, and frowns even as he turns, dries his hands and stretches out the arm,

“Why? I mean – it’s not particularly special – valuable – or anything – had it for years. Bit battered really. Nice though, well, it was in its day. Old now I suppose, dated - ” and he’d go on, the way he does, but she’s looking at it, turning it, and it’s a bit – weird – really, only then she says,

“Alfie wanted to get me a ring – but then he wouldn’t have anything – and Lisa – she says the thing about a ring is – it announces it to everyone. And some people – at our age – will have all sorts to say – so best to be really sure that’s what you want. The commenting, I mean. And then Alfie remembered your bracelets, but I wasn’t sure, so he said come and look at yours.”

Vince blinks.

“It’s not quite the same as a ring,” he says, slowly, hesitatingly, because – well, because – it isn’t. And he doesn’t know this girl at all, but if Alfie’s said something, well, he doesn’t want to let him down, shatter a myth, break his faith in Stuart,

“I know,” she says, and smiles, “I know you two are a bit – well, Alfie said stuff, and then he said Stuart said not, and Lisa said something else, but Romey – she says old married couple – and Romey’s nice, I like Romey,” she flushes, and then, hurriedly, “not that I don’t like Lisa, just – you know? And Stuart –“

She stops, and Vince nods, 

“I know,” he says.

“Alfie’s telling Stuart,” she adds, “I think I’d rather stay in here a bit.”

Vince looks at her, and then scrunches his face for a moment,

“No good doing that,” he says, “thing with Stuart – he’s a bit – if you let him, he’ll be a complete cunt. But if you don’t – he’ll respect that more. Usually. He won’t like it, but – well. Not up to him, is it?”

All the same, he’s glad of the warning. 

They go back, and sure enough, Alfie and Stuart – looking more similar than usual – are glaring at each other, only a moment away from shouting.

“Now Stuart,” Vince says, uselessly, but then he thinks and goes on, “calm down. They want to make promises to each other, doesn’t seem to be anyone else’s business really,” and he looks Stuart straight in the eye, and goes on, “don’t recall you discussing anything with your parents. I reckon it’s nice of Alfie to want you to know.”

Which is unanswerable.

Stuart snarls, gets up – you can’t, Vince thinks, call it flouncing, because Stuart isn’t that sort, but it’s awfully close – over to the whiskey bottle and pours himself a drink, chasing it down with a second as he stares out of the window while Vince rattles on about something random and strange he saw on telly the other night.

As Vince can always be relied on to do.

Bracelets. Instead of an engagement ring. Little fucker that is his son – his son – to assume – to make out – to almost say – that he – and Vince – like some fucking pair of straights – like they – it’s not like that. It’s different. Stupid little cunt.

Stops himself.

Alfie.

His son.

Shouldn’t think like that. 

But – sixteen – just – and talking about – Christ.

How does anyone get to be so – sure, at sixteen?

He just stands and watches.

Calming gradually, because after all, Vince – Vince hasn’t changed since he was – what – fourteen? So maybe – maybe it will be alright.

And if it isn’t – time enough to shout.

The rest of the day, Stuart watches them, Alfie and Emily, their ease together, the way they touch, or don’t touch, and he thinks yes, you’ll do. She’s not what he would have expected, not as obviously pretty, or flirty, or – or all the things that are supposed to be what teenage girls do to attract boys – but then, he reminds himself, that’s not really something he can judge. Still, after they’ve gone, he knows what Vince means when he says she isn’t quite as – well – as – not that she isn’t pretty, but – not what he expected.

Shrugs.

“What the fuck do we know?” he says.

And like every night, he sleeps wrapped around his Vince. But still the twat doesn’t take a bloody hint.

 

 

 

The Stuart-dream happens again – first time since the new sleeping arrangement – first time for a while really. All the chances that he didn’t take, all the moments that never happened, but might have, all the longing and pain of it. First time for months – the longest without that he’s ever been. Must be getting old, he thinks later.

….on the bed, and the magazine dropped, fallen away, and oh god, please, yes, Stuart touching him – touching him – Stuart – and – and there isn’t – isn’t anything that could be better, only then – then finding the courage to reach out, and – and Stuart’s hard, wants it, and – and wanting to lean back, to say his name, over and over, and there aren’t words, there couldn’t be words for this, and his mouth so close, so – so warm – so – oh god Stuart – and there’s a noise, the front door, but Vince doesn’t – doesn’t care – he isn’t going to back off, and there’s a moment when the kiss doesn’t end, and then Stuart pulls back, and laughs, and it’s over, it’s over, it might never happen again, and I didn’t deserve it, I was brave, I was and he still – he doesn’t want what I want – Stuart stands, laughs, and moves out of reach……

…..in the pub, and Stuart walks in, and it’s been months, this university term seems to have lasted forever, but he’s here now, and he smiles, and – and then it’s Dantes, and dancing together, and Stuart’s laughing, and the rhythm is perfect, and he leans forward and there’s a pill on his tongue and Vince sucks it off trying not to think what he’s doing, only it feels so good, like it always does, and he – he doesn’t pull away, it’s his tongue in Vince’s mouth, and oh god, oh god Stuart, please, and then he pulls back, and hands clasped, pulling Vince along, just like he does, and into the loos, and – does he really – he wants – oh god, yes, it’s happening at last – and sucking him off in a cubicle isn’t what Vince has dreamed of but it’ll do – please Stuart, yes, even just that – only then they’re in the queue, and – Stuart pulls away, Stuart catches someone else’s eye – and he isn’t that wonderful, but just more wonderful enough – and – and Stuart laughs, there’s a pat on the hand, an ‘off you go, go and make someone happy’ – and – but I would, I would – I wanted – only you don’t, you don’t want me – you never will – and Stuart is gone, the door closing, and Vince leans against the wall…….

…..”run, run like the wind,” and Stuart – Stuart leaning forward, kissing, and it’s soft, gentle, the way it never was before, not even in imagination it wasn’t like this – and is this – does he – could he possibly mean – and Vince swallows, so afraid, so unsure, but – but he doesn’t run, he doesn’t do anything, he just – he waits – and Stuart leans again, kisses again, and this time, this time, maybe he does, really, and Vince can’t help himself reach out, arms round him, hands in hair, at last, oh Stuart, yes, oh please yes, and they’re kissing, really kissing, just gentle kisses, and Vince can feel himself whimpering, hear the little embarrassing noises in his throat, but please – oh please – don’t stop – if this is being thirty then I love it – only suddenly Stuart pulls back, and ‘goodbye Vince,’ and he walks away, and Vince turns, sees Cameron – god, Cameron – looking through the window, and Cameron just shakes his head, turns away, and that doesn’t matter, who cares about him – but Stuart – Stuart walking away, walking towards – towards Nathan – and he doesn’t want – will never want – he’s gone, too beautiful, too perfect…….

……..that dance, oh god, that dance, Stuart holding him, moving together, sweet and easy, the way it ought to be, the way all the most embarrassing dreams had it be…..and then the room, all flowered, and so, so naff, but – but right – and Vince – Vince waiting, not speaking, just watching, watching Stuart – Stuart stripping, and Vince, somehow still silent, not asking, not saying anything, not making promises, just following his lead. And they’re in bed, in bed together, and Stuart reaches for him, and – oh god, please – Stuart please – and he leans into the touch, hands running over him, and able at last to touch back, and Stuart is every bit as perfect as he ever imagined, lean and gorgeous, moving against him, making those wonderful Stuart-noises – and Vince, Vince can feel his heart beating fast and urgent – and then – then Stuart pulls back, and looks at him, and smiles, only it isn’t a nice smile, not at all – and Stuart shakes his head ‘sorry Vince, seemed worth a try, we had to try,’ and Stuart – oh Stuart please – please – but he rolls away and lies, back turned, and Vince can feel the bed move as Stuart’s hand finishes himself, and he doesn’t ask who or what he thinks of, because it doesn’t matter – what difference does it make if it isn’t him? – and Stuart will never want him, and Vince – Vince lies silent, aching……..

………Bang – Maybe next time – and Stuart walks away, perfect – knowing Vince will follow, because that’s what he does – and then they’re back in the Jeep, and Vince is driving, and Stuart reaches over, and – and his hand – what the fuck – oh god – really – now – on the road – Stuart – but he doesn’t say no, he would never say no – and Stuart – such awful, practiced skill – and Vince is desperate, and – then – then – he turns to look at Stuart and – he winks, laughs, takes his hand away – and he didn’t mean anything by it – it was just a laugh, a bit of fun – he doesn’t – will never – and the shame of it, of being such a fool – Vince swallows it down, and laughs, and knows none of his most-closely-guarded wishes are secret to his beloved tormenter…….

 

 

 

It’s good this, waking up, seeing the early dawn light outside, but not needing to move, not needing to get rid of the shag, just lying here with Vince’s arms round him. Going to sleep like it, and not moving all night – and that Vince doesn’t move either should be more surprising, Vince being something of a nocturnal wriggler Stuart has learned – but of course, Vince would never, ever do anything that might disturb Stuart, make him move away.

There’s times when Stuart feels guilty for knowing that, for trading on it, for all the shit and heartache – because there is, there has been, and he knows it – but – well, he was never very good at guilt.

Besides, if Vince wanted things different – he could have left years ago.

Still.

Lying here, completely safe, relaxed, warm – it’s nice.

Be nicer still if there was any chance of a shag to start the day, and idly, Stuart contemplates what he’d do, how it would be, how to start.

Like this, perhaps, one hand just slowly, slowly moving down. Stroking, just – touching. Exploring.

Eyes still shut, deniable intent.

Pushing close, rubbing against Vince’s thigh.

And – mm – that’s nice. Really nice. 

Lovely, Vince, really lovely. Oh yes, still got what it takes, Stuart, because – yes – rising to the occasion, aren’t you, Vinnie?

Licking – just turning head slightly – licking over warm skin. Warm, not completely clean, slightly sweaty, but – nice – skin.

Hearing that little noise that means Vince is waking, and then a slow exhalation, a thinking, not sure what to do sort of noise.

Stuart, for once, for once in his life, doesn’t say anything. Just keeps licking, tries a bite, but – no, no, we don’t like that, apparently – so, gently, and now there’s hands, hands stroking back, hair, warm, nice, and – yes, that’s it, oh yes, and oh indeed yes, that’s very nice. Mouths meeting, and – and first thing in the morning, should taste foul, but somehow – somehow it’s just Vince, and that could never be foul, could only ever be right. Running his hands over arms, such strong arms, how – because when did Vince last go to a gym – but still, nice, nice to be held – and this isn’t how Stuart ever thought it would be – not that he’s given it a lot of thought over the years, not really, just assumed – sex, he knows about sex – it would be fine; if they ever managed to get this far sex wouldn’t be a problem. But if he had thought about it – when he did think about it – he always supposed there would be words, and fuck knows that frightened him off for years, words and – and he thought he would be in control, thought Vince would be shy, would be nervous, eager to please, but no. Vince seems completely in charge, greedy almost, Vince knows exactly what he wants, what he’s doing, and oh that’s nice, that’s very nice indeed, hips moving against each other, and still the snogging, no, kissing, call it kissing, Vince’s hands in his hair. Stuart is on top now, moving against him, and it’s good, it’s really good, and if he’d thought he’d have rid Vince of these damn stupid pyjama bottoms he still insists on wearing – and why, after all the years of shared rooms, shared bathrooms, Stuart, who sleeps naked, always, genuinely has no idea – but even like this, it’s so good, and Stuart laughs with delight, with the pleasure of finding that something so simple can still feel so right.

 

 

 

Vince wakes, and oh my god, it’s real, it’s real, it’s Stuart, Stuart on top of him, Stuart’s hair in his hands, and oh god, please, please, and he moves against him, and at last, oh at last, and – and then there’s a lick of hot tongue on his neck and he groans and oh don’t stop, please Stuart, please, and Stuart laughs in his ear, and it’s the old mocking laugh, and he doesn’t want what I want, he never will, he never has, he’s still laughing as he says,

“Oh my god, Vince, lovely and hard, ready to go, oh yes,” and Vince can’t but hear the echo of all the other times, real and imagined, and the pain of it, the pain of it still, he pushes Stuart away, even as Stuart whispers, “I didn’t know you still cared, wanted.”

“Fuck off, it’s not for you, been months since I’ve had a shag. Pavlov’s bloody dogs, mate.”

Stuart rolls to his side of the bed, still laughing, the way he always laughs, won’t show any feeling, not to Vince, not even to Vince, not like this,

“Sad bastard,” he says, and Vince in that moment doesn’t know whether he wants to hit him, or kiss him, or just – walk out. And never come back.

So, as usual, he compromises.

Goes to the bathroom, locks the door, cleans himself up in the shower. Not that he needs to, not really, but still. It’s somewhere to hide for a bit.

Stays there letting the hot water run over him, not crying, I’m not crying, boys don’t cry. Men don’t cry. Silly middle-aged men who should have grown out of teenage crushes long ago – don’t cry. Stays until he’s sure Stuart is asleep again.

Lies beside him all the rest of the long night.

 

 

 

Nothing is said the next morning, and Vince is only grateful that it isn’t going to become a joke.

But Stuart doesn’t know what to do.

They’re in London, still, and Vince – Vince is in one of his moods.

Sulking.

About last night – and fuck, but he was hot, and desperate, and so good, so good, only – only Stuart screwed up. Again.

Every bloody time they almost – something goes wrong, Stuart says something, something he doesn’t mean, just for a laugh, forces Vince to push him away. But why doesn’t Vince understand, that’s what Vince is meant to do, that’s what Vince always does, understand – only instead Vince is hurt, clams up, sulks, and now – now it’ll be weeks before they’re ok again.

Stuart sighs, not listening to the presentation happening around him, his thoughts only on the next few weeks of silences and awkwardness – and then what? Back to the status quo, he supposes, back to best mates, go back years, known each other from school, holding hands, sometimes, for a laugh, sleeping together every night, and even if Vince lets him close the distance between them in bed – never more than that. And it isn’t enough.

Somehow, it isn’t enough any more.

Well.

Stuart Alan Jones didn’t get where he is today by being one to accept restrictions.

No.

He’ll just have to think of a plan.

 

 

Dinner out, not unusual, but – somehow – it’s been a good evening. Stuart’s been on form, really put himself out to be fun, and interested, and – and the best mate he usually is, not the selfish bastard he can be.

They’ve both finished eating, but they’re still talking, words coming easily, like they do, what to do next, where to go, and Vince is saying he quite fancies Iceland, no reason, just because – when suddenly, Stuart reaches out, takes his hands.

And Vince doesn’t know what to do.

Stuart is chewing his lip frantically, can’t look him in the eyes, and for an awful moment, he wonders what’s coming, thinking, no, please, he’s always been careful, for all his shagging, he’s always been sensible, it can’t be that. Surely.

It’s even less expected.

“Could buy a flat here,” he says, “like we always said. You and me,” and he wants to add – settle down – but he can’t. 

And Vince just shrugs, seems to think he’s just talking about the potential gains on the property market. So Stuart tries again, and fuck, this isn’t easy.

“I’m old, Vince,” he says, and Vince just looks at him, because – Stuart? Saying he’s old? Stuart’s eyes dart up to his, waiting, and then, again, “I’m old. Save me Vince, please.”

And for a long moment Vince doesn’t understand, and then, then he does.

He looks down at their hands, and there must be words, surely in all the years he’s had time to think of words for this moment, but right now,

“Oh my god,” he whispers, and swallows, and then – looks up, and sees – Stuart’s eyes, not on him, not on the table even, but – following the young waiter, the waiter who was looking earlier, flirting as he asked if Sir would like anything else, Stuart’s eyes roving over his arse, and 

“No you’re not,” he says, and quietly, and without a fuss, he lets go of Stuart’s hands, pushes them away, “you’ll never be old. You’re Stuart Alan Jones, for fucks sake. You’ll always be young, and you’ll always be beautiful, and – and I’m going to leave you to enjoy yourself. And him.”

He’s walking out.

Fucks sake.

He was only looking. You can’t blame a man for looking. Habit, that’s all.

Stuart scrambles through his wallet for cash, leaves it on the table, follows him,

“Vince, come back will you? For fucks sake, Vince, calm down, and listen. Twat.”

Stops.

He’s been down this road before, and it never ends well.

Best just left.

He stands still, not sure what to do.

Then turns, goes back into the restaurant, 

“Gents through here, was it?”

And the waiter is only too keen to show him, and drop to his knees in a cubicle.


	5. Chapter 5

Iceland’s good.

So is Grenada – Stuart likes the heat – and then it’s back to Italy for a bit, Rome to finish off the project, Milan just for a couple of nights because they like it, the sense of danger in the air suits Stuart, not to mention the shops, before they’re off again.

Edinburgh for Christmas and New Year. Alfie and Emily come up to join them, after long phonecalls from Vince to Emily’s parents. Reassuring, smoothing, promising all kinds of good behaviour – knowing that for all his pretense of harsh indifference, Stuart will behave if that’s the only way to see Alfie. 

“After all, it’s only three nights, you can go without a shag for three nights. Make up for it before and after,” he says, and doesn’t register the scowl.

Stuart wonders what the fuck he has to do to get Vince to notice, to see. Wonders if – if there is no point trying, if Vince genuinely doesn’t care anymore.

New Year’s Day, traditional Scottish breakfast in a pub, and Emily, who really is, Vince can’t help thinking, quite amazingly brave, turns to Stuart – to _Stuart_ – and asks if he’s made any resolutions.

There’s a silence, and Alfie and Vince exchange glances, before Vince, who long ago accepted no amount of resolutions would change some aspects of himself,

“Right, resolutions, bit past that at our time of life, but you two now, what’s in the Plan for this year -“ hears himself, and has to force himself not to cringe, just ready and waiting for the expected,

“Fuck off, twat, I’m not past anything, me. Don’t need to change anything either. I’m lovely, completely lovely. Have been for years, not that I get any credit for it.”

Alfie rolls his eyes, and is about to start the run-down of the Plan for the year, as though any of them don’t already know it, but Stuart goes on,

“Mind, one thing – you two – seventeen this year – fucks sake, get on with it. Shag. And use sodding condoms.” 

This isn’t silence, Vince thinks, this is deathly hush. 

“Stuart,” he starts, but before he can go on, Alfie stands up, 

“I told you,” he says, low and quiet, and every bit his father’s son – every bit Lisa’s son, for that matter, “I told you, it’s none of your _fucking_ business. We’ll make our own decisions, we know what we’re doing. And,” he holds Stuart’s eyes with his, “if you have a problem, then you need to deal with it.” Then he looks at Vince, shrugs, looks to Emily, “come on, Em, let’s go for a bit of a walk, let these two sort themselves out.”

They go, and Vince wonders what Alfie is thinking, what misunderstanding this time. 

“That – that was a bit dramatic,” he says, because if in doubt, keep talking, “growing up just like you, isn’t he? And mind, I can see a bit of Romey in him, when he walks away _before_ everyone’s shouting. You were awful to say that though. I mean, yes, but – they’ll have heard about it for years, school and such, and they’re not stupid, no dafter than you were, you never made that mistake – come on – why all the – god, imagine saying that – even Hazel wouldn’t have said it like that – at least, I don’t think – no, she didn’t never – “ suddenly swallows hard against the longing, the longing for his mum that still – five years, you’d think it would be less, and ten years before that not seeing her much at all – but oh mum, I do miss you – and god, I wish you’d told Stuart to get on and shag me when we were seventeen. Not that he’d have listened.

Stuart shrugs, does that Stuart-thing with his mouth that means he is feeling unjustly accused, 

“Not my fault. She started the stupid fucking conversation. Besides, it’s important. Just trying – trying to do the right thing. I did speak to the lesbians, but what do they know about it, they’ve never been teenage lads, and Romey tells me to shut up, tells me it’s none of my business – everyone has a go at me, if I didn’t say anything you can be sure that Lisa would tell me it was all my fault, as it is I’ll be blamed for saying it,” he stops, looks away, and then back, “I was out the other night – you know – this lad – lovely boy, gorgeous, and I’m thinking, oh yes, very tasty, snogging away, getting ready to – and then you know what he says? He asks if I’m clean, tested, because he likes to bareback. Stupid little fucker. Twenty, maybe, nineteen – student – says they all do, so long as you ask first, check, it’s ok. Stupid, stupid little fuckers.”

Vince closes his eyes, slow, all the horror and terror still so close in memory,

“You didn’t – please –“

“Of course I fucking didn’t. Not a complete moron. Anyone who would – they’d be riddled. Not just that, all sorts. But fuck – they just go – oh, it can be controlled now – Jesus.”

Vince shakes his head, not finding words, but Stuart hasn’t finished,

“You ever?”

“No,” he says, “course not. Thought about it. With Cameron. Might have, if – well – if we’d lasted longer. He kind of mentioned getting tested once. Like, if we’d gone on that holiday. Test before, then come home and be able to – suppose it was like – I don’t know.”

Like getting married. That was probably what Cameron meant.

Like locking myself into a cage, into a lifetime of being sensible, grown-up.

A lifetime’s commitment to not being with you.

And I couldn’t do that.

Even though I know you’ll never want me, I still couldn’t do that.

“You?” he asks, ignoring the reflex glare at the mention of Cameron, and then, “no, suppose not. Be daft, the way you are.”

Stuart nods, chews his thumbnail for a moment and looks away, gets up, heads to the bar for refills,

“No. Got tested, in London. Just to know, in case, like,” looks over his shoulder, questioning.

“Yeah, right, done that. Not that I really need to, god, its months.”

And Vince doesn’t understand what he means.

Like he never bloody does.

So when he comes back to the table, he continues,

“Not had a fuck since London, been waiting for you to do something – after what I said – d’you always play this hard to get – Christ, poor bloody boyfriends, no wonder they all fucked off,” and maybe he would go on to say something else, but he doesn’t get the chance,

“Fuck off, Stuart. I know, alright, I know you haven’t – been bloody obvious – sulking and muttering about kids, boys, I know you haven’t pulled. And I – I’m not a sodding consolation prize, just here for when the supply of willing bodies that you really want dries up. That’s not what – what I meant.”

Stuart carefully doesn’t say that frankly, that’s pretty much what it sounded as though Vince meant fifteen years ago, in a ghastly flowered hotel room. 

“I didn’t say that I haven’t pulled, twat. I said I haven’t had a shag. Been waiting to try bareback. Don’t you want that? We could do it.”

Vince looks away,

“No – Christ – Happy New Year to you too. I know you. Another one of your panics about age. Grabbing all the experiences there are. Just – fuck off.”

Gets up, walks out.

There’s a long moment when Stuart sits alone staring at the table.

“That pint looking for a home?”

Looks up.

And oh yes, yes indeed. 

The year just got off to a good start.

Doesn’t see Alfie come back in, take one look, hustle Emily out before the shame of having such a father becomes clear.

Doesn’t know Alfie texts Vince to say – meet you at the Mile, maybe? Walk – up to the Castle? Since Stuart seems to have arranged his own entertainment for the afternoon, and you’d best not go back to the hotel.

Vince looks at the text. Twat. You twat. Every time he offers – half-offers – something – you cock it up. Go off in a huff. 

Worth it, was it?

Spends the afternoon – or part of it – with Alfie and Emily, love’s young dream. Feels old, and lonely.

Warns Alfie – when Emily nips into the ladies – not to say anything, not to wind Stuart up any further. Please. It doesn’t matter, there’s no point. He is what he is.

Dies a little inside at the pity he sees in Alfie’s eyes.

But Stuart tracks them down in time to spend the evening together; the rest of the visit goes well. And that’s what matters.

After all, Vince is so used to all the rest of it. It doesn’t matter any more.

Doesn’t matter that he turned down an offer of – a taste of all he ever wanted – one night, one afternoon of glory – Stuart – with nothing between them – from – what – pique that there wasn’t more, couldn’t be more, will never be more? Anger that Stuart can’t ever say it clear – that he is just such a twat, implying and hinting when they both know what his limits are, what he can’t do? Terror that afterwards – afterwards it would all hurt so much more? That when he failed to be magically significant, to convert Stuart to monogamy – knowing for sure what he’s missing would be so much worse than simply imagining? 

Doesn’t matter that the deepest cruelty of it all, the irony of his life, is that what he longs for, he could only have by changing Stuart – and he’s stopped imagining that to be possible, not sure any more he even wants Stuart to change – because if he did, would he still be Stuart?

All of that.

But it doesn’t matter, not compared to what he has.

Not really.

 

 

 

 

 

Lille in January. No real reason, just a vague memory of French text-books.

Rain.

Stuart out, never all night, but enough, enough that Vince lies alone, staring at the ceiling, wondering that Lille has such an enticing gay scene, that Stuart can find so many men up to his standard in such a provincial town. Rebukes himself for being bitchy.

Aches at all the lost chances, the pathetic dreams, the not-so-secret hopes.

Tries to remember that sex isn’t important. Love is what matters, and that – that they do well. In their own way.

Wishes there wasn’t a part of him that – that still longs for more.

Wonders how old he will be before the sight and sound and smell of Stuart ceases to act on him, rouse him from sleep, have him desperate and eager without thought.

Surely – surely one day – it won’t matter any more.

Wanks himself off while Stuart is – doing whoever Stuart is doing – cleans up, drifts almost to sleep. Wakes arms full of Stuart, and knows, whatever his earlier thoughts, that he is the luckiest man alive.

 

 

 

 

“Munich next,” Stuart says, one evening, flicking through email in bed, “but no hurry. Could drive up there. That’d be fun.”

“Yeah, right,” Vince isn’t really listening, “what – drive to Munich? That’s down, Stuart, south of here. Yes, could do. Probably only the same time as flying anyway. And you like this car.”

Of course he does.

It’s a black Jeep.

Some things don’t change.

“You can book somewhere if you like. Or just turn up, see what we find,” and Stuart switches off as Vince debates which would be better, remembers other Munich hotels, tries to recall if there’s anywhere they should definitely stop on the way.

“No hurry, you said? So we could do – I think we could – Luxembourg. Or something. Not been there yet. And there’s bound to be somewhere else. Yes, oh my god, we have to do Stuttgart, isn’t there something important there – car place? You like cars – I don’t know – bound to be other things – ”

“Vince,” Stuart says after half an hour of this, “shut up.”

Vince laughs, and – for the first time – reaches out for Stuart to roll onto him while they are both still awake. Acknowledging it.

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh my god, Stuart, you should have come, you really should, it was great, you’d have loved it – I say that every time – I know, I know, but – honestly – it was just – I forgot how much there was,” and off he goes, always so keen to tell, to explain – he’d have made a good teacher, Stuart thinks again, sprawled on the bed, and this time says it,

“You should have been one of those science teachers, leather patches on your elbows, stood at the front wittering away, not noticing the lads at the back setting fire to the workbench – you never think about that?”

Interrupted mid-sentence, Vince stops, looks at him, shrugs, goes back to teeth-cleaning, but Stuart isn’t put off,

“Really. I mean – I know you’d have had to throw it in in the end to come adventuring – but – why didn’t you do something like that?”

Vince sighs, spits, rinses,

“Think they tend to like teachers to have degrees,” he says, “or at least A-levels. And – if you remember – some of us didn’t manage a respectable set of grades. Besides, can you imagine it – me – trying to shut up a load of bloody fifth formers? Christ. I’d’ve been – shit. It’s not like just enthusiasm’s enough.”

Stuart supposes so.

“Funny,” he says, thoughtlessly, watching Vince walk towards the bed, watching and not thinking about his words, “how little degrees and all that matter once you’re into a job.”

“Yeah, right,” Vince answers, not looking at him. Funny how much they do when you don’t have one – but he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t protest, doesn’t expect the hurt to be acknowledged. Instead, “anyway, look, you’re not in the office tomorrow, you said, what d’you want to do? Zoo?” he flips through the guide pages, “there’s – oh cool – a batcave – an actual cave with bats in. Flying around. Like round your head – sounds ace, I love Munich – don’t you think?”

Stuart doesn’t shudder, he knows he doesn’t, but Vince looks at him anyway.

“Oh, yeah, the hair. Bats. You – you bloody poof,” and Stuart pounces, tickling him.

“So,” he asks, later, when they’ve established that there is nothing unmanly about not liking bats, “what else is there? No bloody zoo, thank you.”

Vince shrugs. Looks at Stuart.

“Oh for – twat – you want to go back to your bloody science museum, don’t you? Alright. Shit. Things I do for you.”

Yeah. Right. Things we do for each other.

But you still don’t see me.

“Now come here. I need to sleep.”

Except for this. We have this now, at least.

 

 

 

 

 

 

For all that running away was supposed to free them from this sort of thing, for all that it’s apartment after apartment, hotel after hotel, no settling down, certain things do become sort of – habits.

Vince catching up with various dreadful – in Stuart’s loudly voiced opinion, although it’s noticeable he doesn’t actually ever leave the room – television shows on wet afternoons, while Stuart – as befits the one with a proper job – irons shirts. Because actually, laundry services are all well and good, and they have used them often enough, but sometimes – it’s just not worth the hassle of finding somewhere. Besides, when you spend as much on shirts as Stuart does, you tend to be quite fussy about their care. Much to Vince’s quiet amusement.

So it’s Vince that answers the Skype call.

“Vince, shit, Vince, is Stuart – no, best not – god, he’s going to kill me. I don’t – I don’t know what to do – I daren’t tell mums. They’ll go spare. Christ, it can’t – Vince, it will be alright, won’t it? Somehow? Stuart – he won’t be really cross – if I – oh god – dad will help, won’t he? With money?”

Vince doesn’t turn to look at Stuart. Doesn’t flinch, and he’s quite proud of himself for that. Instead,

“Alfie, what’s happened? Tell me. And then we can work out what to do.”

Knowing Stuart is listening, hearing the quiet – very quiet – “fuck, fuck, fuck,” the iron being slammed down. Hoping the shirt isn’t about to set off the smoke alarm.

Watching Alfie swallow, his eyes flicker, and,

“Is Emily – alright?”

Wondering if they’ve broken up.

Alfie running hand through hair, and oh god he looks like his father, and then – suddenly Vince has a horrible thought.

“Alfie – what’s happened? What have you done?”

Alfie biting his lip, and then, all in a rush,

“It’s his fault, really, I can’t help it, it’s his genes, the way I am. He – he should have known – should have made me see – you should have said – I – why didn’t either of you tell me? Why didn't somebody stop me? I – we had – a bit of an argument. No, not even that, just – Em – oh god, Em – needed to finish coursework – and I went – to this party – like I – we said we would – only – Em wasn’t there – and – and I got drunk – and – oh Christ, Vince, what the hell will I do if she’s pregnant? Em will find out. And – and I don’t want – I was drunk – it doesn’t count – surely – surely – no-one gets pregnant first time, right?”

Only they do.

Not that Vince would consider himself an expert, by any means, but as a result himself of a hurried, drunken first-time – he can’t believe any teenager still says that.

But now is not the moment.

“Alright,” he says, “slowly. You went to a party, without Emily. Because she was working. And you – got off with someone? Shagged this girl?” waits for a nod, “and now – when was this?”

Alfie has his hand up over his face now, biting the side of his finger,

“Last night,” he says.

“Ok,” Vince is thinking, desperately, “isn’t there – I don’t know – some kind of emergency after-thing? That she could take? Make it less likely? And then – then you only have to tell Emily you made a mistake?”

It sounds weak. But what else can be done?

 

Alfie shrugs.

“Yeah, but – Vince – she might not want to – I don’t know how to get that stuff – and – she’s put it up on her Facebook page – that we’re together – and Em will see it – and – oh fuck, Vince, what am I going to do? I didn’t – I didn’t mean to – it just happened – and what if her parents see it – they will – I know they will – and she – Christ, school tomorrow – she’ll be there, all smiley – and Em – Vince, what am I going to do?”

Vince doesn’t know – how the hell would he know?

He’s wondering what to say – maybe throw a sickie? Would that help? Give a bit of time to think? – when Stuart leans over his shoulder. He’s been busy, apparently, looking up the kind of thing they don’t know.

“Don’t know why you’re asking this one,” he says, “you don’t think twat ever – oh well. You stupid, stupid – Christ on a stick, Alfie – look, it’s called Levonelle, you get it from a pharmacy, the sooner she takes it the better – go now, go and march her down to the shop, stand over her while she takes it. And next time – use a fucking condom. Like I told you.”

Alfie nods unhappily.

“Could do. But – her parents – they’ll want to know why she’s going out with me – I don’t even know her, like, she – oh god, they could get me put on the register – police – shit – Dad – what am I going to do? She’s fifteen. Her parents are gonna say all sorts. And Em. God, we were waiting – we wanted – first time to be together – oh god, what am I going to do?”

“They’ll say a whole lot more if she’s carrying,” Stuart answers, vicious, hearing his mother’s choice of words as he speaks, “fucks sake, sort that first. Then – then just accept you and Em are finished. You screwed up. It happens. Move on – have some fun – and for fucks sake, use a condom.”

Alfie rubs a hand over his face,

“Yeah,” he says, “you’re right. Should have known – should have known I – that it was silly.”

“It doesn’t have to be over,” Vince can’t stop himself, because he remembers the way those two looked at each other, and – and one night – it might not matter, surely, “if you talk to Em. Tell her what happened before she hears from someone else, tell her you’re sorry, tell her – promise – never again –and mean it. If you can stick to it. If that’s what you want.”

Thinks of something else,

“First time – isn’t such a big deal. It’s all the times after that matter. If you love her – if you really love her – “

And there’s a look of hope in Alfie’s eyes at last.

“Could try,” he says, and then, “can’t make it worse, can it? But I’d better – god, Josie. Get that over with.”

 

After he’s gone, Stuart just sits there, ironing forgotten.

“Fuck,” he says, “should have gone back. Taught him better. Fuck. What a fucking mess.”

Vince rubs his head, uneasy, guilty.

“Yeah, sorry, s’pose – should have when – well, we could have – anytime, really. Sorry. Never – didn’t think. Should have.”

“Twat. Not you that needs be sorry. Wasn’t for you – well – fuck, you know how many times you had to remind me to even think about him at all. Don’t suppose – he wasn’t meant to be mine, you know. Not really. Just – uncle Stuart. Hate uncle. But – well. Once he was there – wasn’t so easy. And then – leaving – thought it would be alright, better than hanging around being one more person having a go at him – and now – shit. I told him – I did, didn’t I – I told him to use a condom. Why didn’t he listen? Why does no-one listen to me when I’m being helpful?”

Because you’re such an arrogant prick, Vince thinks, I love you, god but I love you Stuart – but you are the world’s most arrogant, irritating bastard.

“Fifteen though,” he says instead, “like father, like son. At least he’s young enough the police’ll probably turn a blind eye. Poor girl.”

Stuart looks at him, derailed,

“Who gives a fuck about her?” he asks, “she was probably asking for it, skirt up to her knickers, all wanting and pouty – got precisely what she wanted – and now she thinks he’s her boyfriend. Shit. Still. Maybe if it gets him away from that Emily, gets him out there having some fun, it might not be the worst thing in the end.”

“Christ, you really are a cunt. And I like Emily,” Vince says quietly, and stands up, shoves feet into trainers, reaches for his jacket, pats pockets, “Going out. Walk.”

Stuart rolls his eyes, not answering, knowing himself rebuked.

 

 

 

 

They’ve spent evenings apart often enough that this one shouldn’t feel different.

There’ve been times – of course there have – over the years plenty of times, when Vince has thought he’s had enough, at the end of his tether, can’t take any more.

And – of course – he’s always come back, like the sad bastard he is, come to heel, well-trained, pathetic really.

But somehow – somehow – he really isn’t sure this time.

Absurd, because after so long, what the hell would he do on his own, how would he cope? Not money, he’s ok for that now, could manage, but – what would be the point to any of it?

Without Stuart, what is he?

And Stuart – still, after so long, when things have been so – good – recently – Stuart could still say that, act like that. 

Vince walks for a bit, finds a – not a pub, this is Munich, but the next best thing – sits himself down at an outside table, orders a – not a pint – and god the homesickness – tries to lose himself in the world on his phone. 

 

 

 

At first, Stuart just sits, staring into space, wondering about Alfie, whether everything’s going to be ok, whether he should phone Romey – let her know what’s going on, get her to – he doesn’t know – there must be something.

But what’s the point – whatever he does, someone will blame him for doing it wrong. Someone will have a go – there’s always someone.

And now – Vince has fucked off.

Bloody temper tantrum, drama queen, but the words, familiar as they are, don’t seem enough, don’t really cover it at all.

Vince has gone off.

Left him.

And – it’s happened before, bit of time apart, but usually – usually he’s been able to go out, find a shag, get it out of his system – not sit here, worrying.

Thinking.

Thinking – what if, one day, Vince doesn’t come back?

What if he – goes?

Takes all that shiny new confidence – and it isn’t new, not really, it’s been a while, but it still seems new to Stuart – notices that lovely older-man thing he has going now with his looks – and fucks off?

Finds himself a proper boyfriend?

Because he knows without Vince – without Vince, he isn’t Stuart Alan Jones. He’s just another sad, middle-aged man wishing he was young again.

So why has he fucked up again – what did he say this time?

As if he doesn’t know.

But – that isn’t really what he thinks about, sitting there in the rented apartment, as the light outside falls away. There’s something else on his mind. Something Vince said.

_“It doesn’t have to be over, tell her you’re sorry, tell her – promise – never again – and mean it. If you can stick to it. If that’s what you want…..First time – isn’t such a big deal. It’s all the times after that matter. If you love her – if you really love her – “_

He’s always known, always liked knowing, that the time in Vince’s room – Barry Sheene – that was Vince’s first time. Not that it happened – but – he was there first. Always liked the idea that before anyone else – he’d touched Vince, saw him – that if they’d kissed – which they didn’t – but if they had – it would have been Vince’s first kiss. 

Only now – Vince says that doesn’t matter. Says all the other times matter.

And they don’t have any other times.

Because love – love can fuck off.

That’s the glib easy response. The one he used fifteen years ago – more than that now – but sixteen years changes a lot.

Love hasn’t fucked off. 

At least, not until now.

Now he just might have broken things.

 

 

 

Of course, he doesn’t do anything radical.

He doesn’t pull a shag, stay out all night, get drunk, get arrested, get into a fight, walk away from the only man he’s ever loved.

He drinks quietly, steadily, until closing time – or what would be closing time back at home, in Manchester – and then he walks, slowly, steadily, back to the apartment.

Lets himself in, quietly.

Strips down to boxer shorts in the living room, uses the bathroom haphazardly but quietly, and then goes through to the bedroom.

Stuart is in bed, asleep, apparently.

Turned away on his side, back on the side he always used to sleep.

Vince nods, swallows, understanding the silent message.

Climbs as quietly as he can into his side.

Lies in silence, staring at the ceiling.

Aching that they are back to this.

“Not asleep,” Stuart speaks to the wall, “can’t sleep without you here. You know that,” no, Vince thinks, I didn’t actually, “Alfie texted. To say whatshername had taken the pill, it should be ok, whatever that means. And he was going to see Emily. Hours ago. Not heard again.”

“Probably good,” Vince says, and then, because one confession deserves another, “sorry. For belting off. I just – needed a bit of time.”

Silence.

Vince stretches out a hand, wants to touch, to make up, to hold Stuart, feel him relax and sleep, but he doesn’t quite have the courage to do more than hover for a minute and then pull away.

“Do you really think that?” Stuart says, and there’s silence again.

“What?” Vince is confused, can’t work it out. It’s been a long evening.

“You said. About first times not mattering. Only all the other ones, or something,” and Vince shrugs, ready to reply though he isn’t sure what he’d say, “about her – if he loves her – if he means it – if he can stick to it. Only – if he can’t – doesn’t – what then?”

Vince is silent, not sure where this is going.

“If he tries though – really tries – wants to – but say – habits – years and years of habit – hard to change, all at first – don’t you think – someone who loved him might – understand?”

Vince rolls onto his side, stares at Stuart’s back.

“If – if he – if he really wanted – all the times to come – future-times like – would that make up for the first time, for other times?”

Doesn’t know what to say, how to react.

Stuart shifts, this is difficult enough without Vince going all silent.

“Fucks sake,” he says, “Vince?”

Vince swallows, shuffles himself a bit closer, wraps an arm round Stuart, and for the first time, allows himself to bury his face in that hair.

“Still here,” he says, after a moment, and then, “always. Whatever. And you know me, always believed in the future. Space travel, hoversuits, food pills, all those things. Robots. Fantasies. Dreams. Future more than makes up, I reckon.”

Stuart’s hand comes up and grips his.

The future. Yes. Maybe one day.

Worth holding on.

Always.

 

 

 

Of course, nothing’s simple.

It never is.

And they never say any of it – that was quite close to actually talking about it all, for them, even if Stuart hid behind concern for Alfie, and Vince behind drink. Not that he was anywhere near drunk, but still. It gives them both an out.

Text to both of them next day, usual cryptic Alfie-communication, but – on the whole – it sounds as though he and Em have made up, for now.

That evening, Stuart announces, casually, that he’s pretty much done with this client. And fancies a bit of time off, travel, have some fun.

Vince nods. He’s been preparing for this.

“Let’s go home,” he says, “Manchester. Just for a bit, if you want. Or – we could – stop for a while. But anyway, see – people. Friends. You could see your parents, if you like. Do Marie a favour. She sounded fed up with them last time I spoke to her. Been ages since I saw Alex. Catch up with a few faces, you know?”

Stuart looks at him.

Vince shrugs.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” he says, even though it would, it would, the moment they get to Canal Street, and they’ll get there, sooner or later, and Stuart – Stuart will be Stuart, nothing wrong with it, no lies told, no promises broken – but everyone will see how it is. Sorry, mum, he thinks, but – if it’s what Stuart needs to do. Stupid to love someone this much, so much that there just isn’t any room for anyone else, isn’t any room for anything. Still, “wouldn’t hurt. And I could see my K9. Poor little sod’s still in storage you know.”


	6. Chapter 6

Manchester.

Still raining.

Still just the same.

Except – people change.

Lisa and Romey – same house, and not really any older-looking than last time, but – seeing them back here, you notice it more. And, by the momentary blink, so do they.

And for the first time, it occurs to Vince to wonder whether Canal Street will be painful in the way he dreads – or worse. Because the thought of Stuart finding himself one of the ignored – back on his own home turf – but nothing – Vince feels sick.

But first, there’s time to be spent with Alfie – and Emily – and then Vince supposes he had better go and see – his stepfather. Not that he calls him that, Hazel’s policeman, Brian, but technically, that’s what he is.

“You don’t have to come,” he says, “go and see Marie, or – or whatever.”

For a moment Stuart is tempted – not to see his sister, that will be easier and better with Vince there – not to go shopping, in Manchester, after Milan? – not to drop into his old office, catch up with any remaining faces he knows, why bother? – but to go and find himself a shag, reassure himself some things haven’t changed. That he is still Stuart Alan Jones.

Then he looks at Vince, knows he owes him better than that.

“I’ll come,” he says, “be a laugh.”

Vince nods, feeling sick again, terrified all the lies are going to come home to roost.

 

 

 

 

It’s not quite a sheltered housing flat, but it’s the next best thing. Small, very warm, television in pride of place, and the man Vince remembers from their – what – four meetings as huge, fond of a pint, confident – is small, and old, and – lonely.

“Moved here a year or so back,” he says, as though Vince might not have known, despite the cards sent at Christmas, “Judy – my daughter – thought it would be better. On my own. Not one for the housework, really. Not that Hazel was – well, you’d know – not the most domestic – but we rubbed along. And the house – well, it was hers. Never felt quite right there on my own. Kept expecting you to turn up, ask me what I thought I was doing there. Silly really. Not like you’d ever turned up before,” and then he looks away, pours the water from the kettle into the teapot, “she missed you, you know. Missed you like – well, I don’t suppose you’d know. Mothers being what they are.”

There’s a silence, Stuart apparently engrossed in flicking through an old copy of the Mail, Vince not knowing what to say.

I missed her too.

I still do, not every day, perhaps, but – so much.

I couldn’t bear to come back. 

I didn’t want – didn’t want to hurt her more.

And now I’m going to let everyone see she was a liar – lied to – can’t even be faithful to the promise I made myself when she died. 

I should have come before. Should have been honest.

He shrugs, but then Brian goes on,

“She never complained, don’t get me wrong. Always proud of you, she was, the two of you out there, fighting the good fight, she used to say. I’d say I was just glad you weren’t doing it on my patch any more,” and he looks across the room, catches Stuart’s eye, and winks, “though that went down as accidental vandalism in the end. There being no witnesses, and the lady not liking to press charges. And of course, we didn’t want to seem to be – well. There was an image issue for GMP, really. So it was pointed out.”

Stuart grins, and Vince realises the two of them understand each other worryingly well.

It’s a short visit, in the end. But somehow, seeing the wedding photos again, seeing this man, hearing him speak about his mother – Vince finds the guilt lifted a bit. She did have a good life, on the whole. She was happy. They were in love – oh, not the hearts and flowers sort perhaps, but – he wouldn’t miss her so much if the marriage was just for tax reasons. Whatever they may have laughed about over the years.

There’s just one moment, when Stuart is in the loo, when Brian says quietly,

“You’ll be back to get married now, then?”

And Vince has to laugh, say no, not really our style, lie and lie and pretend it doesn’t matter.

Wonder how many other people will think – or say – the same.

Wonder what lengths Stuart will feel it necessary to go to in order to prove to them and himself that nothing could be further from his mind.

“Call in again before you go,” Brian says, as they’re leaving, “it’s good to see you. Wish I’d met your mother twenty years earlier – more – but still. We had what we had. And I daresay I should thank the two of you for that, the way we met and all.”

“Inadvertent Cupid, that’s me,” Stuart says, and the visit ends on a laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

Three nights in, three nights of meals with Alfie and then just back to the hotel, Vince is still waiting for the penny to drop, for Stuart to realise, to feel trapped, to – to do something. 

“Seeing Marie tomorrow,” he says, setting the alarm, flopping down onto his side in the way that means, though he never says it, hold me. Still not quite sure what to make of this new development, Vince does, making an agreeing noise, then,

“You’ll be better without me there.”

“Fuck off, I came and made nice to old PC whatsit. Least you can do is come and smile at Marie. She likes you, always did. No, come for a bit, have a coffee. You can sod off when she insists I go and see the parents. Wouldn’t put you through that.”

Marie is – Marie. Pleasant company, chats away to Vince. Funny, that, really. They used to hate each other, as teenagers. Marie hating the secrets she knew they had, the freedom, the independence Stuart was given as “the boy”, the lies she sensed Vince told to cover for him. Hated the ease with which Stuart had made such a friend, while she, moved to a new school at an awkward age went from popular to ignored. Vince intimidated by her knowledge of a different, younger Stuart, by all the jokes and closeness between them – always there, even if only acknowledged on good days. These days – well, over the years gradually – they’ve ended up almost allies. Exchanging news, addresses, keeping in touch. 

Stuart wonders if Marie knows how Vince makes his money. Wonders whether she would be shocked or amused. 

After a while, Vince puts down his coffee-cup,

“I’d best make tracks,” he says, and holds his hand out for the car-keys, “going over to the storage place, have a bit of a look through. Mum just packed up the whole flat I think – best to sort it now, really,” he grins at Marie, inviting complicit amusement, “didn’t have a useful secretary to just do it all, did I?”

Stuart hands the keys over automatically, even as he starts,

“You sent me the address? So how am I going to find it if you’ve got the car?”

“Taxi,” Vince suggests, and then, easily, “and don’t be rude, just be nice to them, your parents, they could be a lot worse. Don’t get drunk, don’t get into fights. Behave.”

Touches Stuart’s shoulder to take the sting out of his words, feels Stuart lean into his arm for a moment, even as,

“See, he’s having a go at me, you’re just waiting to have a go at me, everyone has a go at me. It’s not my fault –“

Marie doesn’t laugh. She really doesn’t.

Just looks at her watch, buys them another coffee, no point getting there too early, they’ll only be in a dither. Might as well enjoy having the chance for some time with her little brother.

Catty, right on his wavelength, she knows him too well. Full of her boys, but ready to hear about his,

“At least yours hasn’t made you a grandfather yet,” she tells him, and Stuart responds with the story of the scare before he stops to think. 

“Fuck,” he adds, laughing, “Vince will kill me. Not supposed to know – Emily would probably have a fit to have been discussed.”

Marie makes the face that says she knows Vince is a much nicer person, but Stuart’s her brother, and then it’s time to visit the parents.

“I know,” she says, “but think of it as doing me a favour. Just – just be nice – for half an hour – after fifteen, sixteen years is that so difficult?”

Yes.

But he does his best.

Tells himself to think of them as clients – old, boring clients – and just not react. To any of it.

Yes, indeed, it has been a while.

No, no reason to come back now, just a short visit.

Still travelling, yes.

And working. Doing alright. No, no money problems.

Seen Alfie, yes. Yes, doing very well. School. College next. And such a lovely girlfriend.

No, he hadn’t seen the photos from Thomas’ wedding. Lovely. Yes.

And that’s the little one is it? Yes, it looks like a baby. How nice.

Ben? Oh, it’s a shame, is it?

Feels himself tense.

It’s a shame they split up. Because he was such a nice boy, that James. Catholic parents too. Oh. Father Dennis even thought there might have been a nice blessing he could do, if they’d got married. Now that – well – that being legal. 

Still not quite sure how the Church – but there. 

Mustn’t grumble. Your father’s legs not quite what they used to be, but still. We get about, buses and that. They lay on some nice things here. Tea-dance on Saturdays. Marie keeps an eye. She’s ever so good. And that Malcolm – well – he’s been a good lad. Can’t complain. Not done so well as Robert of course, he’s really in the money now. But the boys don’t see much of him. And Malcolm – well, with his own as well, he’s always busy. Just a shame there isn’t a bit more money to go round.

You’ve done well for yourself, though.

Vince – Vince not here today? Rather thought we might see him, Marie says he’s still – you’re still – well. We’d’ve written when his mother died, only – we never know where you are. Marie did say she’d tell him – we had a Mass said. Thought she might have needed it, poor lass.

She was always kind to your mother, after you – well – whatever her faults. 

Those rings – they just the old ones? Nothing new yet?

Anything you wanted to – any news – you and Vince –

There’s some nice bungalows going up, Jack’s lad popped in to tell your father – he’s ever so good, brings Jack round from time to time – nice little place like that. You’re not so young as you were. 

Bit of land. Can’t go wrong with a bit of land. Nothing like owning your own place. A great comfort as you get older. You always had green fingers. Do you good to get your hands dirty, son. Somewhere to get away from her indoors – him indoors I should say.

Somewhere for Alfie to come – won’t be long until he’s got little ones, you’d be sorry to not have a garden for them. Vince would like a garden. Always used to sit out in ours, the two of you. Heads together, lying on the lawn, talking away – until any of us came out, then you’d glare and pull Vince back upstairs into your room.

Some days your mother wouldn’t let me out the back, said it was the only way to get you into the fresh air – said that Vince could do with a bit more fresh air and proper cooking.

Not meaning anything against Hazel, but she wasn’t a homemaker, was she? Well. Poor lass, never had the chance really.

You and Vince though. Still see you lying there, him talking, you laughing. That was a nice photo Marie gave us, the two of you – Rome. The Holy City. Such a lovely picture, really relaxed you look. You’re a lucky boy, son.

You off now?

Well, take care.

Both of you.

 

 

 

Stuart sits in the car, silent, waiting while Marie speaks to the – whatever she’s called. Not a matron, because it isn’t really a nursing home. Not as such.

She gets in, shuts the door, looks at him. Doesn’t start the engine.

“They’ve missed you,” she says, quietly, “they really miss you, Stuart. And – they do try, you know. They aren’t so bad. Never were. If you’d just – given them time, made it a little easier on them. Thomas and Ben – and Alfie – they’re really fond of them.”

He’s silent.

“They can’t help – they don’t have much else to think about. Children and that. It’s all some of the old ones in there talk about. Mum especially – no, both of them – they love seeing the pictures of the two of you, hearing what you’ve been up to.”

He looks at her, sharp, and she shrugs,

“Vince emails me quite a bit. I edit what I tell them. Used to edit for the boys too, but I reckon they can cope now,” she pauses, “Thomas barely remembers, you know, not really. Ben doesn’t at all. It wasn’t an easy time all round for them. They only remember cool uncle Stuart, with the crisp machine and the scalextric, the holidays in the Caribbean with cousin Alfie.”

Stuart doesn’t answer, so she goes on,

“Mum – they both – when the law changed, the marriage thing – they both, separately, asked me if you’d come back now. Because the other one misses you.”

“Just – just drive me,” he finds the address, “here. Storage place.”

She nods.

They drive in silence, and when she pulls in,

“Vince in there?” she asks, and then, “when are you two – gods sake, Stuart, he’s good enough, isn’t he? None of them are perfect, look at my Malcolm with his teeth – but he’s stuck around,” and Stuart isn’t sure which she means, Vince or Malcolm, “and even you – you need to slow down. Accept it. We’re not so young as we were. Not just Uncle Stuart, you’re Great-Uncle Stuart now. Even if they don’t say it,” looks at him, “just tell him. He’s not going to run now. And if he does – run after him.”

“Fuck off Marie,” automatic, and the answering, 

“Fuck off yourself,” is reassuring.

She doesn’t wait, drives off. A competent middle-aged woman. 

Fuck.

A competent woman who’ll be fifty later this year.

A grandmother.

Fuck.

Stuart pushes himself upright, runs a hand through his hair – not thinning, god, please no – and walks, trying to conjure up the old swagger, the self-belief, to the entrance.

There’s a bored teenager – well, probably twenties, realistically – on the desk. It’s obviously a tedious job, watching people who know where to go come in, and – and do whatever people do in a self-storage place. The sort of tedious job, the sort of mildly-attractive youth, that – not so very long ago – Stuart would have known precisely how to deal with.

Only – it doesn’t quite seem right. And, from the expression on his face, it just might not work. 

Instead, he falls back on – not charm, just – honesty.

“I need to find my friend. Vince Tyler – he’s down in one of these units – his storage – can you point me in the right direction?”

But the lad shakes his head,

“Sorry,” he says, “it’s against company policy. If he comes and gets you, I can let you in. Phone him.”

Stuart’s face twists,

“I really, really don’t want to do that,” he says, and then, “it’s – well, it’s something of a surprise. He’s not expecting me,” and then, oh fuck it, he leans forward, runs his eyes blatantly over the young man, “thing is, I know he’s going to be pretty upset – seeing all the memories – I don’t want him to be alone. You know?”

The receptionist glances at Stuart’s hand,

“You his – partner?” he asks, “only – if you’re civil partner, husband, I can let you in. But boyfriend I can’t. That’s just the rules. We have to be a bit careful.”

Stuart blinks.

“Partner,” he says, “yes, that’s the one.”

Then there’s an explanation, directions through the maze of orange indoor sheds.

“You should just have said,” Liam says, as he sends him off, “partner not friend. Not the 1950s, you know, mate. Hope he’s alright. There’s a kitchen if he needs a cuppa. Usually biscuits lying about, help yourself.”

Fifteen years, after all, Stuart reminds himself.

You forget how much things change. Thirty years ago – what was Canal Street? A couple of pubs, a club, not much else. Fifteen years ago – fantastic. As for now – maybe they should go and find out.

So long as they don’t run into his nephew. Apparently Ben is a regular.

“Though he’s a bit nicer than you – well, he dates,” Marie had added, “sometimes at least. I don’t ask. He even took the last chap to meet Mum and Dad, like they said. But it didn’t work out, so – just don’t try and chat him up, Stuart, that’s sick, even for you.”

Anyway.

Fifteen years. More really.

K9 doesn’t look as though the time has changed him at all, much like his owner, when Stuart finds them, sat in among a – shed – full of videos, books, magazines, bits and pieces, stuff. Vince has been busy. Every box seems to be partially emptied, and if there was a method to it, it’s impenetrable to the non-Vince mind. He looks – absorbed, engrossed, off with the fairies, frankly.

Just like he always looked.

Stuart stands, holding two mugs of tea, watching, listening.

“Oh my god, look K9, I’d forgotten this, didn’t know I still had it – well, I don’t really – it’s not big – could pack – no, if I’d forgotten it, it can go, but maybe just – just have a look through. While we’re here. Put it on that pile,” and it goes on K9’s back, is carried over to a particular spot, and then – Stuart laughs, silently – then Vince follows, takes it off, puts it down, pats K9, “good boy, well done, come on then, what’s next?”

Turns, sees Stuart, flushes.

“Oh fuck off,” he says, “you bought him. Your fault.”

Stuart nods,

“Bought him to keep you happy,” he says, “god, Vince, you’re such a nerd. So. How’s it going?”

“Alright, yeah, there’s a lot here to get rid, thanks,” he slurps at the tea, “perfect, should have done it before. Silly really. Don’t need any of it, do I? Not even,” he sighs, and pats it, “not even you, mate. Bring in a fair bit you will.”

Stuart looks at him,

“You can’t sell hi– you’re going to sell that?” he asks, “after all the fucking trouble I went to?”

Vince laughs, looking at the floor,

“Yeah, right, the trouble Sandra went to. I’m not stupid, Stuart. I know she did it all, same way she always did everything. Anyway. Oh well done, biscuits, god, how’d’you always find – custard creams – fantastic. But – K9. Yes. Time to let him go – what’s the point in having him, keeping him here? Nearly did years back – when I needed the cash – but – well, I knew what mum would make of it, so I didn’t.”

Stuart blinks.

Drinks some of his own tea.

Actually, I bought him. Searched him out, negotiated, paid, went and collected him.

Seemed like the least I could do – least I could let myself do.

Not that it matters.

“What would Hazel have thought? That I’d done something – screwed around? Oh come on, Vince, do you think I haven’t worked it out? She thought – you let her think – let them all think – we were boyfriends. Just like you always did, you lying cunt.”

Vince shakes his head, looking at the remote, playing, sending K9 round in circles,

“I never said – but yes. She did. I didn’t know. Not to begin. It was only – well – oh, it doesn’t matter. We’re not, and I don’t mind, really. Only I didn’t know how to say – didn’t – she liked the idea of it. So. Well. Doesn’t matter now. But if – if I’d sold him,” he stops, then, “she always thought – thought I’d come back, to all of it. I don’t know. Buy a house down the road. Be there, doing her shopping as she got older. Like – I don’t know – like I was suddenly going to – oh well. Doesn’t matter.”

Stuart feels guilty.

Vince looks at him, shrugs again,

“It doesn’t matter. It was never going to happen. All that. Dinners for two. Domestic bliss. I’m not settling down, not going to get married. I never was,” he stops, looks away, and then, “never wanted to. Not – well, maybe sometimes. Only for moments. Is that what you thought? Always? You been waiting too? All these years – you been waiting for me to – flounce off and come back here? Shack up with – I don’t know – some nice suitable man Hazel would find? Like I’d just – turn round, and – oh, Stuart Alan Jones, who’s he? God, Stuart. Thirty-two years. And you still think that?”

Stuart can’t answer.

Wants to. So much to answer. So much he ought to say. Like – I’m sorry, I know you did want it a bit. And I tried – I tried to give it you, give you Cameron. Give you a chance. And yes, I thought – thought that was what you were waiting for. Me to get old, tired of moving, tired of fighting, tired of shagging; thought you wanted the house, the marriage, all the rest of it.

Didn’t trust you.

You’re such a liar, Vince. I never quite know. Even now.

But they aren’t words he can say. 

Especially just come from his parents, from that uneasy truce, all the years of spiteful comments ending in – in those shared sentences, that speaking each other’s thoughts. From the talk of nice little bungalows, of aren’t you going to get married, have a blessing, settle down properly. The tightening of the noose around him. 

Can’t say any of it.

Shouldn’t have to.

Vince is supposed to just understand.

He shrugs.

“Whatever,” he says, “sell it all. I don’t care.”

Vince nods.

“You waiting?” he asks, “car’s out the front, you want the keys? Only I’d better sort this lot, can’t leave it like this. There’s a few bits I want to keep – put them to the side, otherwise – yes. I’ll sell it.”

In the end, Stuart “helps” all afternoon.

Around six, Vince looks at him,

“You go, honestly, I’ll get a cab – no, you get one, then you can have a drink. Go and change, go out. I’ll see you later, yeah? Or tomorrow morning, if you stay out.”

Almost, Stuart does.

Then he thinks better of it.

“I’ll get chips,” he says, “lots of chips. Might as well get this done now we’re started.”

Vince nods, not expecting to see him again. He knows Stuart. There’ll be someone distracting.

 

 

But Stuart does come back. With chips, fish, mushy peas. And no sign of anything happened.

Makes more tea, steals more biscuits. Watches Vince eat them with that very slightly patronising, fond smile. 

By half-ten, it’s all done. Everything Vince ever owned, sorted into a very small pile of – keep to take, and a huge amount of – sell. Photographed, itemized, listed, on what Stuart refers to as “sad-bastard-collectors-dot-com”.

On the way out, Vince is busy texting Alex, trying to find out where to meet, almost doesn’t notice Liam still on reception until he speaks,

“Goodbye Mr Tyler, everything sorted out now? Be seeing you again soon, will we? Your partner said you were having a bit of a clear out – no problems?”

“Partner? Yeah, no, right, no problems, just – you know – lot of things to deal with. Be back in a couple of days,” and then feels an arm round his shoulder,

“Come on, love, let’s get gone. Thanks for that, Liam, look at him, all over the place since his mum died, appreciate your help.”

They’re in the carpark before Vince can manage words.

“I didn’t – I didn’t say – I never do, people just assume – “

Stuart looks at him,

“No, you didn’t. I did. He wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. And anyway – what are we? Mates? Bit more than that, by now. Partner will do,” he shrugs, starts the engine, “been telling Thrive that for years. Thought you knew.”

And no, Vince thinks, no, I didn’t know. How would I know? When did you ever say?

You never say.

Any of it.

You just expect me to understand. 

And then it hits him.

Maybe that’s what love is, to Stuart.

Not having to say you’re sorry – not having to say any of it. Ever.

Maybe that’s enough.

Suddenly the hours on Canal Street don’t loom so badly.

 

 

 

 

 

Alex hasn’t changed a bit. Well, obviously, he’s older, camper than ever, it seems, more flamboyant, draped over – the latest chap – whatever his name was, and Stuart really couldn’t give a flying fuck, but fundamentally, Alex is still Alex. Loud, excitable, heart in the right place, completely harmless, one of Vince’s biggest fans, and – a blithering idiot.

“Ooh sugar, get you,” he says, looking at Vince, “very nice, lovely, the aging is kind. It must be love, keeping you all glowy and rugged. Gorgeous,” and then he looks at Stuart, and there’s that awful moment before, “and look at you, Erogenous Jones, no changes there either.”

And Stuart knows he’s lying.

Scowls.

“Pint?” he asks Vince, and “you’ve had enough princess, but what’s yours, mate?” to George? Giles? something like that, and heads off to the bar.

Vince is away, full of what they’ve been doing, where they’ve been, how’s this man, and that, and what happened to the other one. It should be nice to see, Stuart tells himself, a happy Vince, but somehow – it simply points up all the time gone. All the ways in which Vince is complete without him.

Takes him a while to be served – and that’s new – barman doesn’t flirt – and that’s new – no-one catches his eye, no-one’s looking – and that’s new. Not new, new, just – new here. Oh, if he put the effort in he could find someone. He probably will, later on. But – no-one’s looking, hoping.

He’s old.

Gets back to the others, hands over the drinks – including Alex’s vodka – and listens to the conversation. Christ, it’s tedious.

Eventually, he meets someone’s eye. Not gorgeous, not perfect, not – not up to the old standard, but – ok. Good enough for a quickie.

“Look after this,” he says, puts the drink next to Vince, and he’s off.

Vince nods, absently, still engrossed in catching up, half-sees the look passed between Alex and Jon, but ignores it. 

Until Alex puts his hand on his arm,

“Sugar, do you need to – go and make like the heavy boyfriend? Your Mr Jones has just gone into the bogs with –“

Vince sets his jaw,

“I don’t need to know. Assume it’s not that bloody Nathan – oh no, he went off, didn’t he? Making money in Scotland you said – no, I don’t need to do anything.”

Alex frowns, then remembers about wrinkles, and doesn’t,

“But sugar – sweetie – you can’t be serious? I never thought you were one for that open relationship stuff – you could have had shitface on those terms long ago –“

Vince closes his eyes for a moment, sorry mum, sighs, 

“It isn’t like that,” he starts, and then shrugs, because what’s the point, “oh you know what? Just – forget it. Tell me the rest of the saga of Kitty and the hedge-trimmers.”

Alex remembers not to frown.

Carries on talking, life and soul, and yes, it’s just like old times. Vince carrying on, acting normal, just don’t look too close, Stuart swaggering back, cocksure and pleased with himself, knocking back his drink, and Alex can’t resist,

“You missed my round, and their rounds – it’ll be your turn again, thank you very much,” and – Stuart just grins, sets off to the bar. 

Alex starts off on his story again, but Vince stands, 

“I’m sorry, I’m dead knackered, I’ll be off. Lunch tomorrow, yeah? Text me,” and he goes. 

Outside, he leans against the wall for a moment, gets his phone out, texts Stuart.

Wishes he could have a cigarette.

Knows that one cigarette is impossible, one too many.

Waits for a long moment, fighting for calm.

Stuart loves him. He calls him his partner.

None of the rest matters.

Surely.

Surely it can’t – and god, but he must be one of the few men in the world to think like this – it can’t be that many more years before sex stops mattering.

Before he’ll be able to watch Stuart go off with someone else and not care, before Stuart won’t go off – and even as he thinks it, he reaches to touch the wood on the railing in front of him, catch back the wish and kill it. Because the day Stuart stops wanting sex, the day Stuart can’t find anyone who wants him – that won’t be the day he turns to Vince, like he used to imagine. It’ll be the day Stuart falls apart.

And Vince couldn’t bear that.

 

_Gone back to hotel. Don’t get me a drink. Don’t wake me if you come back. Breakfast at 9._

Stuart looks at the text, shit, why didn’t you stop me, why does nobody ever stop me, why don’t you stop me, Vince, and slams his glass back on the table.

“Shut up, princess,” he says, and then, fuck it, just – fuck it, “Christ, sixteen years, and you’re still bleating on about that. Just – fuck off. Be another sixteen years before we come back to this rancid shithole.”

He walks out.

Jon looks at Alex,

“Oh, don’t mind him, he’s always like that,” Alex smiles, “nice to see no change there either. God, makes me feel young again watching them,” he looks at Jon, who is bewildered, “Vince longs and does nothing, Stuart goes off, makes him jealous, Vince stands and seethes, Stuart smiles, Vince storms off, Stuart swears a bit and then goes running after him. And nothing happens. They just – on and on they go. Be still like it when they’re sixty, I reckon. Mind you, Vince might just haul off and strangle Stuart one day, I suppose. Be justified if he did. You wouldn’t find a jury in the land that’d convict him,” he sighs, and then, “mind, at least he’s making good money these days. Internet’s been good to him.”

Vince is, of course, in bed by the time Stuart gets back to the hotel.

In bed, and turned away from Stuart’s side of it.

Sulking even in his sleep.

Refusing to be ordered by text, Stuart puts on the main light, strips noisily, uses the bathroom with the door open, running water, splashing about. But he has forgotten the differences between the Hazel Tyler school of mothering and that of Margaret Jones. Vince can sleep through anything, and always has.

Stuart stands, naked, posing against the light, for a long moment. At his best like this, the lines not clear, the figure, the outline still the same as it ever was – and he knows it.

Vince shifts a little, hand moving slightly, and Stuart just looks at him, at that face, and in it he sees the shy teenager, the awkward youth with no self-esteem, the confident man who came crusading with him, the man he – and he isn’t going to say it – can’t say it – but – he shouldn’t need to.

Vince is supposed to just understand. Everything.

Always.

Sighs, and brings a hand up to his mouth, chewing at the nail as he accepts his pose is wasted on his – what? Friend? Best mate? Partner? 

Lover?

Beloved?

Irritant?

Fuck.

Now what?

Turns off the bathroom light.

Gets into bed.

Lies still and quiet, not sure what to do, how to say any of it.

I’m sorry.

I had to, had to prove something to myself.

He wasn’t any good. 

I know – I think I know – you’d be so much better.

It was only a quick wank. Well, I wanked him, he sucked me. Not sure how that rates in your book, but – oh Christ, Vince, I’m not fucking dead. Got to do something. You said – you said it didn’t count. If I was sorry. And I am – always – sorry afterwards. But you don’t touch me. 

And when I touch you, you flinch away.

So I’ve given up.

But I can’t give up sex. 

Is that what you want? Is it not enough that I’m not shagging very often, not going for the full fuck – not going back to theirs – do I have to stop completely before you’ll let me in?

I thought I only had to stop afterwards, once – once we were – properly.

Fuck.

I haven’t gone without for more than a couple of days with flu since – since I was sixteen. You can’t expect that?

He sighs again.

Still asleep, mostly asleep, Vince rolls over, onto his back. Reaches out an arm,

“C’m’ere,” he mumbles, and Stuart settles, then, “ ’night, Stuart. Lots ‘o love.”

It’s good. Really good.

Good enough?

 

 

 

 

Vince wakes, and he can just about reach his phone, check the time on it, because it looks pretty light outside – and yes, it’s gone eight. Alarm will go soon. 

Switches it off.

Breakfast is over-rated.

Stuart is here, warm and comfortable. Why move?

It’s funny, he thinks, really, it is, it’s funny, because thirty years ago – twenty years – even ten, this would have been – torture. To lie and hold the one man he wants, has wanted for so long, so very close, and both of them almost naked, and not be able to do more – it should be torture, really.

Only – it’s perfect.

Be nicer if they’d spent half the night shagging, of course it would – or if there was chance of something good to start the day off – but – well.

That’s like saying, it’d be nice if Stuart ever apologised for all the crap. It might be nice, but – it wouldn’t be Stuart.

Still, just sometimes, when he’s like this, completely comatose, warm and – and affectionate – Vince lets himself pretend.

Strokes the hair, plays with it even, just a little.

Runs a hand down his side. Not touching anywhere he shouldn’t, not really.

Just – imagining – not imagining that he’s going to, because the thought of Stuart waking to find him erect under him, touching him – god, no. The humiliation doesn’t bear thinking about. Just imagining that Stuart – no, that isn’t imagining. Stuart does love him. Imagining they are the kind of couple who can say it, then.

Shifts very slightly, carefully, so he can press his face into Stuart’s hair,

“I love you,” he says, whispers really, “I love you with all my heart, Stuart Alan Jones.”

Because he does, and sometimes it feels good to say it.

When Stuart can’t hear.

 

 

 

 

Lunch with Alex is a whole different level of excruciating. Fifteen minutes in, and Stuart has – has gone off to provide entertainment and deserved relief for – well, knowing Stuart, anyone average-looking or better who wanders in to the gents.

Vince supposes it was only to be expected. But still – it would have been nice if he could have been slightly less obvious.

Alex is sympathetic, outraged, and furious with Vince for allowing it.

“He just needs a good telling,” he says, and the thing is, there’s been times when Vince has wondered the same, “he’s acting up because you let him. He just wants you to shout, to say no, to – to claim him. All that bollocks.”

Vince shakes his head, tired of this, 

“Fuck off,” and then remembers who he’s talking to, “sorry. Habit. No, he bloody doesn’t want any such crap. Where d’you get this stuff? Is that what you want? God, he’d go spare. Just leave it. We get on fine the way we are.”

Alex looks at him, looks at the table, and Vince realises.

“Shit. Sorry, Alex. I didn’t – look, it’s up to you. But you have to see it’s up to us as well. Stuart doesn’t – I don’t – cave-men never did it for me, for either of us.”

Composure recovered, Alex raises an eyebrow,

“Just going to say; Cameron – masterful – phone – canal – kiss?” he camps, and then, “Sugar, I hear what you say. But – when did Stuart ever know what was best for him? He might say one thing, but – he’s as gay as the rest of us. And that means he wants a man. Not a patient, forgiving wife.”

There’s moments when Vince really, really wonders about Alex.

Moments when he thinks those ducks might have been better parents after all.

He shrugs, and doesn’t say any of that. It isn’t the time or the place. 

There’s a silence and then Alex starts again,

“I mean, come on, isn’t that what every boy likes – and we’re all boys inside, somewhere, the thrill of a real man – all leather and toughness – being told where the lines are – and what happens if you cross them?”

Vince is wondering about Jon now, glad he isn’t here.

“Honestly, Sugar, imagine, just – putting him over your knee, giving him the spanking he needs, wants – don’t you think that would be the answer to it all? God, just – nothing better than a well-smacked arse, all hot and red – and his face, hair all dishevelled – the pout – don’t pretend you’ve never thought about it?”

Actually, Vince hasn’t.

It doesn’t appeal.

Even as he’s opening his mouth to say so, to add that from all the gory pub-tales he’s really very, very confident it wouldn’t have the desired effect, that Stuart needs to be in control, needs worship, the way a plant needs water – and Vince has a very good idea why, after all the years of observation – he feels the arms round his waist, the rub against his ear. Stuart clocking in.

Oh my god.

What if he heard all that?

“Alex, you kinky queen – what’s all this?”

Thank god, only the end of it. But Vince knows his face – knows the one person he can’t lie to – and daren’t turn, daren’t speak.

“Keep up with popular culture, shitface,” Alex isn’t as daft as he appears, “not just Fifty Shades, you know – you missed out on Tam Hotnell?”

Oh My God.

There’s a silence, and then, carefully, Stuart sits down, staring at Alex even as he starts on Vince’s nachos.

“Assume I have,” he says, slowly, “tell me.”

“Gay erotica – well, porn with a plot – ooh its lovely – he does all sorts – romance, historical, military – Sugar, there’s even a few sci-fi ones, right up your street – most of it’s fairly vanilla, but there’s been a few – well – “ he fans himself, theatrically, “might even teach you a few new tricks, you old slapper.”

For once, Stuart doesn’t react to the word old. 

He’s too busy laughing.

“Stuart – “ Vince starts, but Alex is off again,

“Oh, don’t worry, Sugar, I know, I know, he’s out doing it, doesn’t need to read about it – well, keep telling yourself that, shitface. Very comforting they are. Nice bit of cosy fun on a cold night. They’ve even brought out an app, a game. Dane says it’s well-made, but it’s not my cup of tea. Suppose there’ll be films along sooner or later, just for illiterates like you, but I like the books. Imagination can run wild, but it’s all nice and safe. And no need to cook breakfast for a book. Tam himself now – I wouldn’t mind playing hunt the sausage with him….”

“Stuart – “

But it’s too late now.

“Oh god, you don’t know, do you?” Stuart is almost beside himself, “you really don’t know? God, Vince, you are such a fucking liar. Alex, how – what – where do you think Vince gets his money from? These days?”

“Some kind of – fan-blog – isn’t it? Something like that – that’s what you told me,” Alex looks at Vince, and Vince, Vince looks down at his disappearing meal, shrugs, yes, that’s what he said.

“And you believed him? God, you sad bastard, Tyler, you’d rather he thought that – Christ – did even Hazel know? Yes, she did – didn’t she?”

Yes.

Of course she did.

Not that it was doing so well, then. Taken off since. The app, ebooks – and yes, Alex, they are talking about an animated version. Well, CGI, whatever. 

Hazel loved the joke.

Loved the idea that – that I must be happy to write such things.

“Oh god. Alex, your Tam Hotnell – Tom Hartnell – Tom Baker, William Hartnell – Vince writes all that crap. Churns it out. On planes, in hotels, in cafes. Sits there, innocent as you like, face as cool as anything, big blue eyes, making conversation with nice old ladies, charming them all – and writing that – shit – that kind of fantasy that twats like you wank over for hours.”

Stuart sits back, pleased with his revelation.

Can’t resist adding,

“Fuck knows where he gets it all from. Not from life, that’s for damn sure. Mind, I’m hurt that you didn’t recognise the original for Aiden “fucking magnificent, magnificent fuck” Hendricks, doctor and shag-king of London with his come-fuck-me walk, his you-know-you-want-it smile and his lilting accent….”

Alex – and this must be something of a first – is silenced. Yes, how did he miss that?

Mortified, Vince doesn’t know what to do, what to say. Not that that ever stopped him.

“Sorry,” he starts, “god, I’m sorry. There – I do have a sci-fi-fan-blog. That’s where I started. But – well – there’s easy money – no, not easy, but – it works. With travelling around. And I quite like the research side – oh fuck off, Stuart – the settings. Getting them right makes a big difference. Well, it does to me. I don’t know – I didn’t think it would sell, not really, but – well, why not? And – people like it. But I should have said, I suppose. Only – well – it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it? So I didn’t. And – oh I don’t know. Bit too much like boasting, showing off, I guess. Sorry.”

Meets Alex’s eyes.

“Vincent Tyler, you are – a published author – a star – oh my god – you should do a book signing – here, Canal Street – I’m not the only fan you know – we have to –“

“NO. No, oh my god, no. I couldn’t. Who’d want to read any of them if they knew it was me – saw me – no. Absolutely no. You can’t tell anyone, Alex. Stuart shouldn’t have said. He really shouldn’t. Please.”

Alex pouts.

But he promises silence.

He can’t resist though, when Vince goes to pay the bill, leaning to Stuart, and dropping his usually piercing tones to a discreet murmur,

“He can’t see it, you know. No idea why you’d tell. How proud you are of him. He’ll never see it. He never could; Hazel used to say, there he was, apple of her eye, centre of her world for – what – thirty years, and the rest – friends, his not yours, shags who wanted him, poor old smitten Cameron, practically running that fucking shop, relied on by you, but he never saw it, never saw himself as important to anyone. Your fault, shitface. Time to step up, seems to me,” sees Stuart open his mouth, holds up a hand, “none of my business. And I won’t say it to him – but – remember what Phil used to say? Don’t know how to let you down, duckie, but – that old age – it’s a-coming. And if you’re not careful – you might just find you’ve left it too late. No-one lasts forever.”

Stuart doesn’t chew his lip, doesn’t hide his mouth behind his hand.

“Fuck off, princess,” he says, and walks out, knowing Vince will follow.

Because that’s what Vince always does.

 

 

 

 

Another evening with Romey, Lisa, Alfie – and Lisa is starting to look put upon,

“Don’t get me wrong, Stuart,” she says, “it’s all very nice to have you here playing Daddy – bit late, but better than never, I suppose – but we do actually have a life, you know. Things to do, friends – friends we actually like – to see. You know? Alfie even has homework, exams to think about. So – how long are you two going to be around?”

Stuart shrugs,

“Vince seeing his sister tomorrow,” which is news to Vince, “and then – take off after that. Wouldn’t want to be in your way.”

And Vince aches for the armour in his smile, in his voice.

Holds him later, in bed.

Close, and safe, and – oh my god, Stuart – I’d do anything. But you know that, you must. So if this is all you want – then that’s enough for me.

But I wish – just once – I wish you’d let me make love to you. Take care of you.

Even if it didn’t matter to you, it might – I don’t know – it might be nice. It might help. Might take some of the pain, some of the brittleness out of you. Ease some of the scar-tissue.

But he’s learnt – as if he didn’t know, really, deep down, even before he offered – that to Stuart, if it isn’t sex, then lingering touch – massage – backrub – any of that – is just too lesbian for words. Beyond scorn.

Funny really, he thinks sometimes, for someone so ready to use the word lesbian as an all-purpose insult, Romey is probably one of Stuart’s closest friends. Funny too that he can think like that about touching, but insist on sharing a bed all these years, sleeping wrapped close these days. Still, no-one ever said Stuart was logical.

“ _Am_ I seeing Judith tomorrow?” he asks, almost asleep, and feels more than hears Stuart’s laugh.

“ ‘Course not, twat, but I had to say something. And your face was brilliant. We’ll go out, up Alderley Edge. Been years,” and he might be going on to say something more, but it’s lost in sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Vince's comments about coming back to Manchester, forgetting Stuart, settling down taken from an article I read somewhere about a putative sequel to QaF, focusing on other characters (Bernie? Alex? i forget) with a cameo from Vince. Who, needless to say, had not settled down or forgotten Stuart, even though it was left ambiguous what relationship they had. Only since Hazel was alive, this was all pre-Piffey, as it were.


	7. Chapter 7

They park, and Vince can’t quite get used to this Stuart, peaceable, paying the car-park fee, not complaining. Maybe he is getting older.

He heads off, seemingly knowing the way, not really looking at the information boards – not that Stuart ever does look at information boards, that’s what he has Vince for, but usually he waits, pretending nonchalance. Today, he seems to actually know where he’s going.

Vince just follows.

“It’s not far,” Stuart throws over his shoulder, “couple of miles, right round. Do you good.”

Possibly.

Vince scowls anyway.

From the top, there’s quite a view.

“Manchester,” Stuart says, pointing, “Macclesfield, Cheshire – good really, isn’t it? Remember?”

Vince shrugs,

“Never been up here,” he says, “didn’t know you had.”

Stuart’s turn to shrug. Remembering his parents’ unhappiness, wondering now if sticking with the change – for the sake of the children – was part of what drove them apart, kept them together. Is that what good parents do, stick with what’s best for the children, not persuade themselves that what they want is the best thing? Would a good father have stayed here, been here all along, settled down? Been a good role model. 

Would Alfie have been happier that way? Is he proud? Or just as bored and scornful of his father’s mistakes as every other teenager?

“We first moved here – they missed the green, the hills – used to come out here most weekends. Not always this bit, there’s others, but I always liked this one. The village – nice shops – money – houses. Used to look at them, and think – yeah, one day. Not going to end up in some bloody suburb, some crappy little house in a street of others all the same. One of those fuck-off mansions, that’ll do me,” he looks out, away, back into the past, “then I started to think – us. Plans, remember those? One of those houses. That’s what I had planned for us.”

Vince looks at him, thinking to see the ‘gotcha’ face, but Stuart is still staring out. Remembering starting at a new school, wrong time of year, just after Easter – no football team to show off in, just fucking cricket. Exams on the horizon, subjects and syllabuses he hadn’t covered. People taking the piss out of his accent, asking where he’d left his semtex. Girls looking twice, boys not. 

Except one. And that one – the sort of quiet, not-really-anything much-type that never gets picked on, but never gets noticed much either.

Because even then, Vince had always managed to – not quite conform – but in such a very conformist way, no-one minded. Reading his sci-fi, but always folded back so no-one could see the covers. Not looking at girls, not talking about them – but not looking at boys either, and always had friends-who-were-girls. Not pissing about in class – but not too hard-working, not too clever either. Just quietly making his own way.

And looking at Stuart, knowing, recognising something. Talking away, including him, making it easy.

Like Vince always does.

Except now – now when he just stands there, not saying anything. Leaving the talking to Stuart – and Stuart doesn’t know how to say this.

He never has.

“Then – well, I don’t know – somewhere like that – Christ, Hazel’d’ve been moving in. And you – you and your mates – hard luck stories – it’d never have been just us. You’d always have had someone needing a bed for the night, a room for a bit. And flats – separate – seemed easier. With shagging. Easier for you,” he looks round for a moment, chews his lip, “me as well, I s’pose. Not having to see the kicked puppy eyes every bloody morning.”

“I couldn’t afford something like that, not in a million years – you must have known that,” Vince is trying to stick to the practical, not even look at all the rest of it. Ignore the hurt at so casual a reference to the things they never say. Stuart laughs.

“Like that would have mattered. You couldn’t afford a fucking mobile, never stopped you letting me pay. Car – you never went without a car when you wanted one. If I’d’ve just done it – bought somewhere – you’d’ve moved in. Once you got fed up of driving me home, found you were staying more nights than not.”

Vince isn’t sure. He’d like to think he had more pride than that, like to think he’d always have drawn a line, seen the difference – but on the other hand – what Stuart wants, he tends to get.

Not much point arguing though.

“Used to bring Alfie up here. When I had him on my own – never with you – you’d’ve been off with your geriatric Australian. He was only little – Alfie – could carry him easy enough. Some bits you can walk the buggy. He loved it,” Stuart smiles, and there’s a rare tenderness in it, “well, I used to think he did. Don’t suppose he cared. Warm, movement, stuff to see, voice he knew – I used to talk to him up here. How we gonna get your Vincie up here? What we gonna have to do to get Vincie to come and take care of – of you?” he swallows, manages to add, “of us – of me?”

He’s almost whispering, and Vince can’t quite believe what he might have heard, isn’t sure enough to say – all you ever had to do was ask, surely you knew that – was waiting for the day you’d ask – only you never do – and I didn’t know – how could I know?

You sure as fuck didn’t act like someone who wanted me.

You never have.

Stuart has fallen silent, and the moment stretches.

Below on the path, there’s noise, children shouting, and before either of the men can find words, they aren’t alone. A family, two families, kids, parents, talking, laughter, surrounds them.

Stuart watches one of the boys, must be around five or six, not really anything like Alfie was then, blond and red-cheeked from the wind, running purposefully, laughing and shouting – look daddy, look at this, come on daddy, run with me. He falls, tripping on nothing, starts to wail – and for a second, Stuart moves to go to him, before he stops himself.

Looks away.

Time gone by. Times missed.

The boy’s father picks him up, carries him off, words coming easy, and the whole party moves on.

The silence comes back, slowly, the last shrieks of tears and laughter taking a while to cease.

Vince can’t bear to look at Stuart.

“Long time ago,” he says, and knows it’s inadequate, whether he means for them or for Stuart and Alfie.

Stuart nods.

Still looking out, he answers,

“Didn’t half want to shag you. Sometimes. Only – I never knew what you wanted. Not really. What would happen if we did. If we’d be just another failure. Another Vince Tyler boyfriend who couldn’t live up to unreasonable expectations. Another one for Hazel to glare at, blame for her little boy’s broken heart.” 

Because whatever happened, no-one would ever have believed it could be anything but my fault.

I couldn’t tell what you’d think of me, couldn’t be sure that I’d be as magnificent as everyone told you. Worried that once you’d had me – you’d see me for what I was. Worried you’d walk away. Couldn’t face the risk. The disillusionment in your eyes. The blankness that comes after sex. 

The – the thought of you looking at me, of you turning away, of finding that all of it – all the years, the ease, the hours of talk, of friendship – all of it was just you waiting for a shag. 

I needed to be sure you wanted more than that.

But I don’t know how to say it.

Looks at Vince, at that gorgeous confusion, that lack of understanding, and tries to find words, words that he can say, words that Vince can believe,

“Didn’t know how – how to be – I don’t _do_ boyfriends.”

But that isn’t the right way to say it, even as the words come out, he knows how Vince is hearing them, knows he is making it worse. Sounding as though all he ever wanted was a shag.

Sighs, and turns away again. Tries once more.

“Didn’t trust myself to be faithful. Didn’t trust you to forgive me.”

“Christ,” Vince says, and the word isn’t just an oath, it’s almost a prayer. Help me, please, give me the strength to cope with this. To understand.

“Thing is,” Stuart starts again, looking at his face this time, “I still don’t know. I’ll never know, not until we try. And fuck knows, Vince, I’ve tried.”

Because he has, hasn’t he? He’s offered threesomes or romance. They’ve shared hotels, adrenalin, dancing, danger, drink, drugs, hot and cold – deserts and snowfields. Stuart’s taken Vince out for meals in some of the most romantic cities on earth, and tried to say it. He’s tried just reaching out in bed. They’ve not spent a full day apart for over a decade. Slept together every night for – how many years? Twelve? – Stuart’s not shagged anyone, not the full fuck, for nearly a year now, waiting. Told Vince he was clean, could do it raw, if that’s what he wants. 

“Christ,” Stuart goes on, “Everyone thinks we’re together, and I don’t deny it anymore. And now you stand there, like you had no bloody idea. Fucks sake, Vince, how dense are you?”

Very dense apparently, Vince thinks, vaguely.

He’s still just standing there, stunned as a gaffed fish, and Stuart’s shoulders slump, he turns away again, and his hand comes up to his mouth.

“Fuck,” he says, and pulls his jacket closed. Turns to walk down the hill.

Vince doesn’t move.

Watches him walk away.

Graceful, beautiful as ever.

After a hundred yards or so, he stops, half-turns, not looking but throwing the words back over his shoulder,

“You coming or what? Be cold up here tonight.”

Vince laughs.

Laughs for the joy of it – and runs after him.

Catches at the outstretched hand, and pulls Stuart into a run as well.

Stumbling, laughing, for no real reason – for every reason – they run down the hill. Stupid as boys, out of breath as middle-aged men, they’re panting and laughing as they pass the family group again. 

Pushing each other, zig-zaging to avoid trees, unable to stop without falling, they’re at serious risk of tripping, breaking a leg or at least twisting an ankle.

Vince doesn’t care.

He never cares about anything like that, not these days, not with Stuart.

He could run like this forever.

They don’t, of course. By accident or design – and Vince will never know which – Stuart throws himself sidelong against a tree, swings Vince round by the wrist, catches him. There’s a moment when they stand, close as they’ve ever been, chests heaving, breathing into each other’s faces. Stuart’s left hand is scrunching Vince’s shirt, pulling it tight, holding him close, even as the right is gentling his wrist – and there’ll be a mark there tomorrow, Vince can feel it.

He doesn’t care.

He takes his right hand from the tree, where he’s flung out to catch his weight, balance himself – trusts Stuart to hold him – knows he can trust Stuart – and reaches that tiny distance, that distance he’s never had the courage to cross, touches Stuart’s face.

It’s not supposed to be anything more than a touch, a gentle touch, a pushing away of hair, a reassurance that here we are, everything will be alright, only he can’t help but feel the skin, not a boy’s skin, not the smooth tight skin of a young man, feel the lines under his fingers, and suddenly there doesn’t seem time enough to wait. No more waiting.

He leans forward, and almost as though he has spoken the words aloud, Stuart meets him.

And then Vince – Vince stops touching skin, and his hand is in those curls, and he’s clinging, clinging on, making the most embarrassing sounds – and it’s better than all the dreams, only worse as well, because – because Stuart is every bit as urgent, every bit as hungry and needy as Vince has seen him, over and over again with all those nameless men – and even as he gets a taste of everything he ever wanted, he can’t help but know he’s fucked up so badly – so many times – so many chances missed.

Pulls back, and

“ ‘M sorry,” looking at those eyes, and finally believing what he can see, finally knowing himself seen and believed also, “ ‘m so fucking sorry, Stuart.”

Stuart swallows, and half-nods,

“Right,” he drawls, back in control, and Vince – Vince loves him all the more for it, knows himself helpless and open, completely open, “so you should be. Not my fault. I never fuck up. ‘M lovely. Completely lovely – “

“All of you’s lovely,” Vince takes the words, “I have to spend every single day living with you, so I know for a fact – you’re completely lovely.”

It’s the soppiest, most honest thing he’s ever said to Stuart.

Stuart grins, and as something inside Vince seems to melt, he leans back against the tree, pulls Vince close again,

“C’m’ere,” he says, and then, wicked, “when was the last time you got off outdoors?”

Vince can’t breathe, can’t speak, closes his eyes and then opens them again, just looking, looking and wanting, and oh my god – oh my god – oh my god-Stuart – do you – and yes, he does, he’s hard as a rock, hard and ready, and all the things Vince has ever heard come flooding back to his mind, and oh my god can I possibly be up to his standards – but there isn’t time to doubt, only to remember to breathe, and touch, and yes, yes of course I’ll kneel for you, at last, oh my god at last, I don’t care, don’t care that I hate doing this outside, exposed, terrified of being caught, don’t care that it’s wet and muddy underfoot, don’t care about any of it.

He doesn’t say all that, but they’ve known each other so long, he knows he doesn’t have to.

Stuart just stands there, grinning – the same grin he had when they were fourteen and drinking, sixteen and first went to Canal Street, thirty and ran away from everything; the same as all those times he dragged Vince into fights or arguments, or trouble of one sort or another. Triumphant, mischievous, colluding.

Proud.

Vince smiles back, the same smile he’s always had for Stuart, the smile that says – I forgive you anything, I’ll follow you anywhere, twat that I am – and Stuart pulls him in for another kiss, even as Vince is starting to unzip him, and oh my god, Stuart. Finally.

They’ve forgotten the families behind them.

“There’s those men,”  
“Naughty men,”  
“We saw them – that was bad,”

Vince feels sick. Sick with anger, with despair that even now – even now – and yes, alright, maybe he was about to do something which really he has no business to be doing in a public place at this time of day, but – but just kissing? 

Is that really – still – so wrong? So despised?

Feels himself slump, because this is Manchester, and he isn’t sure how brave he can be here.

Sees the coldness, the scorn gather in Stuart’s beautiful face, and knows – knows sure as day – if he backs down now, this chance will go, Stuart really will just walk away.

And he’ll be right to do so, a voice in his head agrees.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Hazel.

Pulls himself upright, proud, not going to back down, not going to stop, not ever going to hide again, not here, not anywhere.

Hears the answering adults,

“Yes, well, maybe they’re old enough to run down hills like that.”

“And if they aren’t, it isn’t me that’s going to have to pick them up and clean them off, kiss them better, so it isn’t our business. But I don’t want to see you try anything so damn silly.”

And even as the voices pass, as Vince can’t help but laugh, leaning into Stuart, there’s an adult aside,

“No, I’d say they were pretty practiced at the running, and the kissing better – don’t need any help at all,”

And Stuart – he can see Stuart smiling at someone over his shoulder, but it isn’t the come-hither look he’s been burnt by so many times, it’s the look of one adult-who-has-experience-with-children conspiring with another.

All the same, after they’ve gone, he says,

“Back to the hotel, I think. Better come here at night for that,” and adds, “Maybe next time.”

Stuart smiles, and this – this is a different smile, a very particular smile. This is the smile that’s always given Vince hope, secretly, that somehow, in some way, he is as important to Stuart as Stuart is to him. The soft, god you are such a twat but I don’t want you to change, smile. The one that he’s only ever seen used for him, and for Alfie.

“May as well let them walk down,” Stuart says, soft and close, “it’s not like we’re in a hurry. Waited long enough – give us a kiss and a grope to be going on with.”

And god, but a kiss and a grope with Stuart is – better than any of the full-out sex, promises and declarations that Vince has ever had with anyone else.

By the look on Stuart’s face, the speed he pulls Vince back to the car, and the – exuberance – of his driving, it’s pretty good for him too.

 

 

 

 

 

Somehow, amidst the driving in the lunchtime rush hour, the parking, the remembering to put the do-not-disturb sign on the door, somehow all the fear, the lightheaded conviction that he can’t possibly measure up, can’t ever, ever be good enough that Vince has always known he’d feel, faced with this moment, all of it is lost in admiration for Stuart’s repertoire of swear-words – sometimes Vince does wonder if he stopped at fourteen – in admiration of Stuart’s spacial awareness and skill – and oh my god there’s a dreadful joke in there about fitting large things in small spaces, fourteen again – admiration for Stuart’s complete don’t-give-a-fuck attitude towards being caught mid-shag – and just all-out admiration and adoration of Stuart. 

Fourteen. Eternally.

Somehow instead of terror and determination and a need to bring out every hard-won trick in his sexual repertoire – Vince is laughing and relaxed, completely and utterly at home and at ease. Because this is just Stuart, Stuart his best mate, Stuart who has listened for more hours than either of them cares to remember to his gibbering, Stuart who knows all the Doctors in order still, Stuart who was the first person he ever told he was gay, Stuart who always said he was too good for any other man he ever went out with, Stuart with whom he has spent so many hours marveling at the world, Stuart who knows all the worst and best of him, Stuart his first and only love – Stuart. 

All the same, there is a moment when Vince can’t help but flush with realisation and embarrassment,

“It’s been – years,” he manages, looking away, because surely this is the ultimate in sad-bastard-ness, “years – since Matt-the-American – I haven’t – god, just go slow, Stuart? Please?”

Stuart touches his face – and who knew Stuart could be so very, very gentle – well, probably about eight of the ten percent of gay men in the world, Vince supposes sadly, but still – turns his head so their eyes meet, 

“Good,” he says, soft and intimate, that voice that makes Vince’s breath stutter, hand moving so skillful, so very knowing, “Been a while for me too, remember. Christ, Vince – let me – d’you like that? If I – yes, you do – look at me, come on, Vinnie – relax for me – that’s it – feels so good, yes – that how you like it? – that where you want me?” and yes, oh Stuart, yes, there, like that, at last, oh my god, and Vince – Vince has to turn his face away, bury himself in Stuart, in the taste and smell of Stuart, needing to be sure it’s real, it’s not just another dream – needing to hide his eyes for a moment, hide the emotion, hide because – ohmygod – that feels – it never – oh it’s been good before but not – not like – reminding himself it’s just because it’s been a while, just because you’re able to be skin to skin, that’s all, it isn’t some magical true-love that makes this better. Far from it, if anything it’s all the many, many fucks Stuart has had, all the experience being spent on you, only – only that doesn’t explain why Stuart seems as desperate, as overpowered as you feel. Vince wants to – to say everything, tell Stuart everything, pour out all the words and feelings – but Stuart’d hate that, so he doesn’t, he just opens his eyes, and watches, and Oh my god, this is it, this is it, at last, and maybe everything he wants to say is there in his eyes, if Stuart wants to see it. Stuart, still so tender, so careful, but looking down at him like, like the sum of all his dreams, and smiling, and “ – ah fuck, we should have done this before – that’s it luv, that’s it – Jesus, Vince – ”

And then there’s no more coherency, no more sense from either of them, just movement and heat, and holding on, watching, needing, just urgency and desire and oh my god don’t stop, don’t stop, more, please, harder, everything, anything, all of it, all of you. Look at me, look at me, please Stuart, look at me, see me, let me hear you say my name again in that voice, like this.

“- Vince – oh sweet fuck, yes.”

 

 

Sweet fuck, indeed, Vince thinks, after, lying and holding Stuart. Sweet, sweet fuck.

It’s getting late now, lights coming on outside, curtains could do with shutting.

Only that would mean getting up from the bed, would mean ending this – not this, the two of them, Vince isn’t that daft, not now, not any more – but ending this sweet, sweet first time.

Ending this kissing, holding, touching – finding out, you and me, what are we like together? How do we fit? What do you like? Really – the rumours were true – more, again, already? – and yes, actually, maybe – oh my god – like that – but – you twat. No, I don’t think it’s funny. Well. Maybe. Seeing as it’s you. And me. And everything is funny and wonderful, and god, Stuart, did anyone ever tell you how amazingly long your eyelashes are? How much I want to kiss your lip, your finger when you chew at them? How perfect you are? How – how bizarre it is that your collarbone smells like biscuits when I know for a fact you never ever eat biscuits because you’re weird that way? And you’re laughing, and I don’t care – I don’t care – you aren’t going to change me. No, I don’t want you to – you can’t really want to – not after – oh. You – tasting yourself on me – oh my god. The way you talk. But. Well – maybe. Oh my god yes. Jesus. No-one told me about that. I need – need to – and then you – do you like this? Is that the way you like me to look up at you when I -? Like it? Fuck. No-one told me you were – bloody hell Vince. Dead good-looking. And dead good at that. Even if you talk too much, talk like the twat you are all the time. Never too much. You’d forget my name if I didn’t talk, I know you, you cunt. And - really? It’s good? You mean that? And what – How do you taste when I – how does this feel – is this different with you? Special?

And it is, all of it.

Completely, utterly lovely.

Stuart’s asleep – at least, he seems to be. Head buried in Vince’s neck, still embedded in him, wrapped round him – there are very definite advantages to no-condoms, even if, as Stuart has already pointed out, for al fresco, spontaneous moments, they might regret the mess. Not that Vince has ever really been one for al fresco, spontaneous moments – although who knows. Plenty of future still to come.

 

 

 

There is, isn’t there? Plenty of time left?

Surely.

His parents – his parents still meandering on, at whatever age they are now – Dudley, even – just because Hazel – that was bad luck. Vince doesn’t drink like that. Doesn’t smoke anymore.

Plenty of time.

Because this – well, it wasn’t the best sex he’s ever had – but – it was bloody good. Best for a while. Different.

Better than he’d thought, hoped. 

To look down, see Vince under him, see all that – that – whatever it is – that’s always in Vince’s eyes. That knowledge, that – trust. Goes both ways, mind.

Nice, in a funny way, to know that – that just suppose – it didn’t – well – suppose it was – not quite so good, it wouldn’t matter. Because Vince would give you another chance, would forgive, like Vince does. 

Reassuring.

Been a part of him worried that – well – that he might not be quite – quite the ‘Aiden Hendricks’ Vince obviously thinks he is. That all the stories might have built him up, that Vince’s new-found ability to write porn might have made him more – demanding.

Stupid.

Vince is still Vince.

Might be taking notes, of course, in his head. Stuart grins against Vince’s neck, wondering if the next book will have Aiden’s rimming technique in more detail – and who knew that even poor old Cameron was so crap at that – quite the revelation Vince’s delight was. Mind, he has an unfair advantage, being able to do – well, anything – no need to worry for once about safety. And being so completely lovely. 

Or maybe Vince will go shy about Aiden, move back to the fantasy side. They wanted more of – whatever his name was – Bailey, Basilisk – the weird castle-series.

Who gives a fuck?

Weird, mind, doing all of it with Vince, with someone he knows so well – weird to have the chatter at the same time – to be one minute – heads down, busy, and the next – the next discussing biscuit-choice. To hear that voice making those noises – and fuck but he hadn’t put Vince down as a screamer, but bloody hell that was satisfying – and then – just when you’re getting your breath back, starting off about what shall we do tomorrow? You want to go back up that hill? You like hills? Want to go north – or Wales? Or we could just – just stay in bed?

With a certain breathless – Stuart isn’t sure what the word is – the sort of excitement, hope, desperation, that makes Vince sound – well, Vince. A twat, a complete and utter sad bastard, usually, because usually when he sounds like that he’s talking about some obscure bit of cult television, or sci-fi, or what-the-fuck-ever – only this time he’s talking about Stuart.

Weird.

Weird to have someone be so – brave – so open. He always thought that about Vince, that he was actually really brave, just putting it out there, this is the twat I am, this is what I’m enthusiastic about. These are my friends, this is my mum, these are my mum’s friends, this is my history, right here, on my wall for anyone to see. These clothes are what I choose. These colours, these books, these tapes – my choice, not what’s trendy. This is how I want to live my life, whatever you think. Never listening to Stuart any more than to anyone else, really. Weird that he could be like that, but still think of himself as a coward, still be so unsure about other things.

Anyway. That’s Vince.

Twat and proud of it.

So. Tomorrow. What are they going to do tomorrow?

Never had to have that kind of conversation in bed before, because shags – shags just fuck off tomorrow. 

Smiles.

Got it wrong, didn’t he? Shags fuck off. 

Love – love doesn’t fuck off. 

Might have to work on the outdoor thing, mind. Still, nice to have a challenge.

Stuart likes a challenge.

 

 

 

Vince takes advantage of the quiet stillness to indulge himself, his love of the hair, of just – stroking, just holding.

“I love you,” he whispers again, because Stuart’s safely unconscious, only he feels the arms around him tighten convulsively, and blushes, squirms in hideous embarrassment, shame at his pathetic dreams.

“Doesn’t put you in charge, saying it,” Stuart mutters, “don’t think that.”

Vince laughs, because when has he ever been in charge? Why would he want to be?

“Sorry,” he says instead, “thought you were asleep.”

“Resting,” Stuart grunts, “all very well for you, lying there. I’m doing all the work, so far. Be up for another round in a minute. Quicker if you keep wriggling like that. Might even let you show me what you can do.”

Vince presses another kiss into his – well, ear, actually.

“No rush,” he says, “no rush at all.”

“Bloody is,” Stuart heaves himself up onto his arms, looks down at Vince, and the fleeting tenderness is gone, this is full-on Stuart Alan Jones, Stuart the show-off, the incomparable, the most masculine creature Vince has ever seen, “bloody is. ‘F I say I’m going to fuck you all night, I mean it. Might be older than some of your – boyfriends – but I’m damn sure I’m going to show you a better time than they ever did.”

Vince shakes his head, smiling, because really – what a ridiculous thing for Stuart – Stuart! – to even pretend to worry about.

“Fuck off,” Stuart says, “don’t try and patronise me. You want all that lesbian shit of declarations and promises – you can look elsewhere. But I can do this. Whatever all that crap about repeat shagging meant – you want repeat shagging – you’re going to get repeat shagging. And better each time – ‘f that’s what you want – that’s what you bloody get. Twat.”

Then he looks away, chews his lip,

“Assuming you do still want – that,” he adds, “me being – old – and all.”

Vince shakes his head, that look on his face that says it all, finally finding the words that make sense of his life,

“You’re Stuart Alan Jones,” he says, quiet like, “you’ll always be young and beautiful to me.”

And for a moment Stuart closes his eyes; Vince believes it. 

“Not sure where next,” Vince goes on, “maybe Russia? Or – oh my god – we never went to Australia – ‘bout time, isn’t it? Now that we’re – now you know I – now there’s no need for you to think about – I can say I’d like to go without you having a right strop about – well, anyway. Now that the sun hasn’t burnt out, the sky hasn’t fallen in – we’re on the dark side of the moon – we could go and see the other side of the world – always fancied it –“

Stuart relaxes again, lets Vince talk, plan, debate with himself like he does. More adventures to come, no settling down, no stopping. Just Stuart and Vince, proper old married couple. Shagging now and all.

No need to worry about anything.

That’s good enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.  
> Hazel appears as a ghost in RTD's 2015 Cucumber - dead at 55, from a heart defect, in a bar, singing karaoke.


End file.
